1
The pilgrim sits on the bare platform
and asks everyone passing if it is
the right one. “Depends on your destination.”
They say. No train leaves for the place
where his heart goes, and even if there
were one all its seats would have been
double booked for the one way journey.
Winter crawls toward his legs, rubs its
static electric body against his skin,
raises his hair, makes him whisper
the prayers he bought as the tickets.
2
The wrinkled and bent man stares
at the point where parallel lines meet.
His death’s steady improvement
impresses his caregiver. It is Summer
somewhere, albeit here haze veils
the landscape. The quiet reign
of the pre-rain air rules the space
the house overlooks. Although
through these windows one cannot see
the trains nor the quivering bridge
each transient whistle tells him –
this time too whom he calls a pilgrim
hasn’t arrived. His death swells.
The caregiver sighs. She too waits
for the letter of release. The cold he
keeps in his lungs chants a purring catchphrase.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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