Drunk I groove with Bollywood hits on a rickety stage wearing cheap perfumes, tacky clothes.
My face is smeared with make-up.
Weary, I cozy-up with clients. Let them caress my hair, hold me in their arms, their wet lips on my neck then I am back to the stage to dance again.
Every night someone declares his love for me, proposes to make me his queen.
I am still here dancing, getting old, all alone.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you too have a poem you’d like to submit, mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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