Near
The Red Light
From the drunken garden,
from the dancing silhouettes,
the clients and their mates
turn their sweaty heads when
the bells of the temple sway.
Summer, and yet the garden-floor
muffles the footsteps
with its layers of fallen leaves.
The fallen ones never leave
here and now - they say.
baking is complete.
The See-through Dress Sun Wears Today
The town idiot writes
"I am broke, broken." with
his nails on the staircase.
I see his toes through
his open-heart shoes.
His wife-beater reveals his ribs,
and his ribcage the door behind.
Weather dot com says,
it is raining now, and so
I open my umbrella although
sun shows no promise, no veil.
Nothing is covered today.
A sculptor has forged the town
with a nod to hiraeth.
That Last Train
Tomorrow's train passes
the Wait-for-me station
leaving no one.
Songs wear torn trousers;
a tambourine sways in
the cradle of their constellation;
the singer sniffs some nailpolish
remover.
The girl waiting, my unborn sister,
my long gone mother,
perhaps seen through my rear window
like a ongoing slow motion murder,
does not stop believing
what she never believed with all her
senses and gnawing.
"Roll over." A beggar
asks his partner,
"Heart aches." The
announcer
goes berserk with some rotten news.
Night wanes.
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, published across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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