
Before the waving hands
drop down everyone has
lost themselves in the traffic.
The August sky. High-rises, not ours.
These years all the cars mirror
eachother’s looks and habits, and
the friends we bid goodbye to wait
for the signals to turn green.
I raise my hand again, not to wave
nor to greet, to guard my eyes
as one cloud brings orange into
this afternoon equation.
Absence means that there is a past and a future
A joker lowers his sleep on his
folded arms. August arrives, its fur
groomed, nails hidden in velvet white.
On the table a glass of absence
dins – something was there in the past,
something will fill it up soon.
Now feels both nostalgic and hopeful.
The joker turns and loses his red nose.
The nose rolls towards the window.
In the middle of that rectangle a stork
flies nowhere. Neither northbound nor south.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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