The Itch

At last, the wind,
winding its way,
through the restless leaves
of sap-encrusted trees
has reached me now,
at this hour,
so I can breathe
something other than the stench
of obscenely clinging malarial heat.

The sky is gray dark deep invaded,
by an army of gestating clouds.
They shall now,
have the last word-
the sun's autocracy
would be shifted:
he shall be imprisoned for a few restful days.
Such is the way of monsoon summer.

And so I sit becalmed
by the cool, shimmering breeze
but for an itch,
beneath the plane
where we employ, our finer sensibilities.
So as I reach out,
towards a pale blue packet,
I wonder whether I should have
another cigarette or
delay my death
by a few more gasping breaths.