untitled

here,
in the corner of my bed
I sit quietly,
with the documentry of India's
history and progress
in the background,
and the frying of fish
in the kitchen
behind this wall
and the clutter of neglect
all around me,
where I try
to drown myself in beer
and subside the cough
with a few cigarettes
wearing orange shoes
of a Russian make.
It never changes
these sounds of strangers
in varying accents
and the clutter.
It just changes form,
at times its dirty clothes
or plastic bags,
or newspaper and
tissue paper on the bed.