This is not poetry.
It is a confession.
We were out of bread, milk,
eggs and vegetables.
The streets were surreal;
it was a Van Gogh night.
The silence was broken
by hungry howling dogs
two or three lanes away.
My housemate and I walked
as rusty shop shutters
stared at us in disgust
like formalin dipped frogs
in Biology labs.
We found a lone grocer
fifteen minutes later
with some eggs and bread left.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
Tense and silent prayers
from agnostic lips, fell.
Breaking the cellophane
of silence, the girl said-
I’ve never felt so safe
outside at night before.

I must admit, we laughed.