Nearly six hours east of Greenwich,
in a field of rice and spinach,
squats a village by the cratered roadside.
Mangoes are borne with expertise
on heads that yell in Nepalese,
“Your cow is standing on my bananas!”
A small stone enclave froths with soap.
Shri and Patni, each in a robe,
wash in a far from Kama Sutra way.
Sprayed across this mountain-cut stone
are the unlikely words “Punk Zone”
and an anarchy symbol in full blast.
Is this the local bustling hub,
their version of the Roxy Club,
where leather-bedecked youths come to pogo,
scream “I am an Antikrishna!”,
scrub their mohawks with conditioner,
gob in each other’s eyes and wipe off froth?
Lathering away every speck,
swastikas dangling from his neck,
Sid Vicious lives on, wearing a sari.
