WIDE ANGLE
Fly Lab and Its Feels
The door creaks on rainy days and stormy nights ,
Its loudest when tension peaks and the incubator beeps,
Equipments have developed anthropomorphic feels,
The lazy rotor has built in an additional kink,
Decides to work only when the temperature hits a multiple of six,
With Anwesha dressed in a shade of pink.
The sleek-y brush is turning in a sleazy deal,
Tricked me into believing it was hidden by the boy on the low seat.
They juggle our moods on a whim,
Unconcerned of glove-ready hands,
Hiding bleach-wrinkled skin.
Like when 70% alcohol wanted to be sweet 16,
Making Sudeepa regurgitate her 15th plaint.
No one is safe from the terrors of software.
Fiji, once the jack of all trades, is now the reason for Aanchal's hourly grimace.
Motherly instincts are hardwired here,
I caught Modhura humming a Bengali folk
To a freshly collected stash of her beloved strain.
Engrossed in an A. Martin paper,
A tangy scent of tangerine wafts it's way from Maithreyi's cabin,
Making oranges my olfactory cue for panel D from figure 3.
However, today amidst a worldwide lockdown,
My thoughts flow back to room B224,
With its whirring exhaust and jacket-warmed chair.