I
Couldn't Catch That
From some drawer a chronograph
I forgot beeps one o'clock.
The concept of AM and PM eludes me.
The meds aid to forget. Their purpose
is peace, albeit sometimes
it would have been nice to remember
if I have watered the garden
or if it has rained today. The watch beeps
again. What does trigger that function?
I cannot remember if I need a reason,
if I desire its guidance.
I hear my old man fart in the room adjacent.
His phone's AI comes alive, asks, "I
couldn't catch that. Will you like to know
the time now?" It seems nice to know certain things,
and then memory touches my heart- my father
has expired last spring.
Enamel
My buddy Pat has that
enamel mug
from his railway days
he still carries
for some coffee and eggs.
I lean against my knees
grin, "A train-track cowboy."
The morning ambles past
our flesh sorted inside our shades.
I admire the thin azure line
throbbing around the mug's mouth
as if it knows the secret
shall be spilled in spite of its vigilance.
Here all roving begins to form
and surrenders to the formlessness.
We lie supine. The sky claws us blind.
Earth and dirt buzz like utility lines.
Emergency Benevolence
On the day of my daughter's
third birthday we emerge
from a mid-tier inn, all tired.
I display on my cheeks a shade
of red deeper than I my usual.
My debit card has revealed
an unbalanced jaywalk across
this life we've been cast in,
and hence I can feel no pain
when a sedan leaving the parking
runs over my toes semi-sheathed
in faux leather footwears.
My daughter shrieks, cries, mumbles
something we can decode
even without hearing. Later after she
falls asleep, and the panic settles,
and the post-coitus boudoir holds
my wife, dozed off, and me crumbling
in a desire to fix everything everywhere.
Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
No comments:
Post a Comment