The night that arrives after a minor
accident our daughter faced brings
no sleep. I stare at her, asleep in
the bed barely big enough to hold her
any longer. I look at her awkward
eye pad held in place with micropore tapes.
I begin brewing some slow coffee,
measure beans, crush them with slow
rotations, weigh again, comb and even,
sprinkle a little water, pour some into
the chamber echoing Why, and turn on
the heat. So much I can control. So little.
The fragile cup of coffee, still full
upto its brim, remains on the table.
The shower I take runs its cold fingers
in my hair, seeks the grit of thoughts.
.
Kushal Poddar
Words & Picture
.