The moon rises early.
Both the pale Sun and it
have queries that’ll remain
unanswered.
An afternoon parcel man
leaves a package, expected
but not this soon, at the doorstep,
and then arrives the rain,
sniffs the cardboard box,
sabotages its resistance.
When the sky clears the water
and the box are one.
I open the petrichor.
A couple of scared insects scatter.
Tonight I shall keep the gift
in the drawer and feed the box
to the fire.
Mist Between The Mist
I imagine that my upper body
remains visible. The mist has
wrapped the rest.
Between the mist and the mist
one black bird scuds toward
my half devoured sandwich.
Soggy salad adds white to the scene.
One leaf passes through the vision field.
One has a glimpse of that epistle of fog.
In a jiffy I try to read and fail.
The words and signs read too archaic
like my father’s dead advices.
I remember him, dial his number,
and our childhood pet picks up
the call. We remain. We dissolve.
Mist in mist, mist between mist.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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