Won’t the trucks roar down, past the highway shacks?
Where loom pounding hearts, caged in cheery chests
Whiffs of tea and hooch, entwined, in sultry stacks
Ah! Here comes the caravan, of ravenous men, for racy fests
Is it a passage, or pilgrimage, for endless miles to yearn?
On roaring trucks, drift barren souls, stalk a shred of love
Exiled from homes, for holy bread, myriad miles to burn
Drive their pyres on diesel fires, with woeful lots to shove
What beauty bore, that sinful whore, why she bears all the brunt?
“Highway harlots”, why auctioned, in markets made by men
A passion raw, is it nature’s flaw, or machismo’s, right to hunt?
Split, a woman in two, betwixt virtue and sanity’s burden
Touched at last, that chased mirage, men would have their fills
With one-night wives, fireflies, each ounce of whose, purchased
Unwary of what lurks, in these thrills, a malaise, that lastly kills
Tangled to dark destinies, a man and a woman braced
The dawn smelt of broken rhapsody, mates of night, lay bare
Harlot hustled to suckle her tot, on lust-bitten breasts
Truck-man smirked bitingly, “O’ what a loving affair,
Better be a virgin, than a mother, not to waste my conquests”
It lasts to end, and then begin, that lust and wanderlust
A thousand mile hence, another shack, another harlot
Again to squander, a householder, his manhood to the dust
Anew a woman, driven to, mire in smut, so what!
© 2015 Vikas Chandra