We are all lazy asses here.
Waiting with our daily cups of chai
and a stipulated number of
cigarettes,
served in makeshift routines
having more late than early in it,
to drag on to make
something of our lives.
We are all so bored here,
waiting for something to look forward to,
after having walked the same roads
and looked at the same faces
and heard the same music,
that we raise our eyes
in unison,
to look at the hurried woman hurl
out of the almost hugging doors
of the Metro.
We have all grown thick-skinned here,
waiting, even while
leafing away to degeneration
like an autumnal tree,
incapable of accepting
that there will be no spring,
ahead. 
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