The road streams by the rickshaw.
Monday clings to my body, heavy and wet.
I feel the weight. The college campus
dances with its usual folks, blank sheets,
unanswered questionnaires. All wet.
A professor in pink stripes warns me,
“Beneath the current a submerged wire
is alive. It electrocuted the department
of the common language.” I find no word.
More rain strike more rain and pause and
turn together as I pass. In a sinkhole
a singled out page recycles the script.
It reminds me of the friend who jumped
on the subway track. I close my umbrella.
One of its needle sharp finger keeps pointing at me.
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Kushal Poddar
Words & Picture
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