Work-in-Progress (w.i.p.)

The underground metro
The subway, the street.
The nuances of tango,
Every chocolate treat.
The leaves, the wind
The lofty plains of Sindh,
Grains of rice and wheat
Layers of bitumen and peat.
Every passerby watching the world go by;
Green neon lights and black gym tights.
My love for you, your thoughts about me,
Our bookshop stops; even Aziraphael and Crowley
Were once a work-in-progress at least.
Like awkward metro passengers scrambling for a seat.
A w.i.p., some finished, some not –
But each hoping to journey to the right stop.