No one has come to receive him.
“It’s the rain.” He thinks.
The green bends and bows. The black
glistens and runs. His raincoat
murmurs about its own importance.
No one hoists a welcome board.
He dials for a cab. The surge pricing
stabs him. The roofs, sheds, and the tiles
tap the memory’s resources.
They agree and build an industry of sadness.
.
Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
.
Find and follow me
@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe