Intersection

 Been there?

When you're crossing

an intersection,

and thinking 

of the marinade,

awaiting you

on the kitchen counter,

the meat losing itself,

strand by strand, 

tendering up

to the aromatic embrace of Thyme, 

and the warmth of Rosemary's 

delicate flavours, 

and you're thinking 

Carnations and Lilies for the vases,

and you hear your child giggle,

at something from yesterday, 

and you're returning from work, 

riding pillion,

thinking family, 

and food, 

and home, 

all things kind and warm,

when suddenly

on a two wheeler

approaching from the left

you see the most angry,

the most tense face,

you've ever seen,

unkind eyes, 

raging red, 

almost in a deadly way, 

something extremely dark 

and disturbing about them, 

and then you see the man,

slouching, 

shoulders drooping,

head hung low,

in a defeated sort of way, 

like somebody 

who's very very tired,

and you look at the ragged clothes,

and the worn out shoes, 

and the dirt 

on the scooter, 

and you are suddenly reminded

of how unfair and unkind

and unyielding

a day could be, 

of how not everybody 

crossing that interesction

is headed home

to giggling children

and warm meals, 

that not all roads 

lead to homes, 

that this very road

might as well 

lead to a factory 

forced to shut down recently, 

or a school

where from a father

has had to pull 

his children out, 

or to a hospital's morgue, 

or a creamation ground,

and in a whiff,

the flavours, 

the aromas, 

the laughter, 

all of it loses its charm, 

leaving you

with a bitter-bland consciousness,

and a cold sweat,

like when

you step on a rusted nail; 

Reality; that dangerously sharp 

and awfully rusted nail!