On the terrace
he leaves the butts of his stolen cigarettes
and in the attic his cousin’s heart.
The return bus,
a grey one, speeds past a waving couple
because “that’s the way they rob, sir”.
Dream lasts one hundredth of sleep
and sleep one tenth of a dream.
The city is coming.
The Strange Satchel
They must have a method
of managing the baggages,
and yet the lockers’ keeper
returns thrice with a wrong
satchel at the counter.
I didn’t have anything in my bag
except my father’s last sighs.
It was his before I
made it mine. I accept the third
one that looks similar, also empty,
but not in the same way.
Perchance it carries different sighs.
Outside, the hot wind
burrows in the almost solid cold.
I hold the strap of the strange bag
as if to adjust the mast
of a borrowed boat. I fish the unknown.
Alone. “Forgive me, father. ” I whisper.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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