The Sun probably still reclines,
lounges supine on the flood-ruptured wall
that kept the lane a lane and house
the house. It probably gazes into the azure,
into itself, its source, nothing.
I wonder if your cat still tiptoes
on the wall, its chest, tests the fragile ego,
and leaps on a low structure whose purpose
the 19’s torrent has obliterated.
Because this is a sunday I think about these.
Other days have other deluges for me to face.
Bring It Home
I take my confession to the water.
Echoes are uncaged. A couple of crows,
head bent, discusses love and carcases.
The stream slows down to watch you slip
downslope in the slime while pushing
the flotilla of God far into the river,
and me trying to hold you, rescue hearts.
My phone sings Sam Cooke when
a caller remembers me. I do not answer.
It is a long mile before any of us
can ‘bring it home to’ any of us.
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
.