Butterflies In The Tavern Poem by Soumar Bhuyan

Avian innards splattering in oil, unminded
By mess drudges soaked in the juices of toil,
Minding instead the goat, the fish, the peas
Requisitioned by hoodlums on the boil;
An ordinary day, an ordinary time
In a place starved of the sublime
Variations in human nature
Due, perhaps, to the lack of wine
And the plenitude of nominal spirits,
Or the uncertainty of emotions
On the turf of heat, oil and grime,
Smelling, perilously, of impending crimes
Hanging overhead from moment to moment
As I mind my poem in the vicinity, struggling
With the belligerence of the hooch, I vex
Over the state of my chicken
Heart and liver in the pan;
I mildly complain,
And the hoodlums bawl on my behalf.