To commute through narrow lanes
Porting rumours and a painful stab of the postulate
That a son-less man could pick you up
From the lap of your acquiescent mother
Give you another name and title
Impairs a man of upright spine
To be thus made to bend and stoop

Life gets spent looking for reasons
Like rocks to pelt at the windows
Whispering athwart the lanes
Through which destiny has a man walk