poetry by shaurya pathania

Hello. I need a plumber at my place, actually

the tap in the bathroom never shuts 
down, it drips constantly in a uniform

manner, and takes up the role of a loud wall-clock,
reminding me of every passing second, 

scathing the rough floor, made up of white 
clean-polished tiles, although now seem faded

 and patchy with a desiccated smell of hair 
stuck in the drain, it’s vacant and vague. 

I once clicked a photo of my bathroom;
it appeared dull, similar to the Modern 

Art showcased in the National Gallery of Arts. 
I cradle the presence of silence in my house. 

An old radio switches on itself after falling 
down from the shelf once and again. 

Never does it ever play songs or 
summarize a cricket match, all I 

hear is wars & genocide. 
I want it to stop, and it doesn’t help me much. 

I can barely dictate the colors of my own 
flag. I’ve tried to change my middle name 

once, but the office-clerks
demanded a heavy bribe. 

Imagine owning something and yet 
paying to use it or change it—

Sorry, I forgot why I called you. Yes, 
can you please send the plumber guy?