Even before the infusion of the dark
roasted beans and the water,
even before I wake up
and realise that I am awake, I stroll
amidst the empty market
towards its lone magazine stall.
I pass one makeshift shop
on the pavement, built
with the junkyard jewels.
It has a mirror fitted granite top
of some washbasin as its base.
The store depends on the top’s sturdiness.
I stop every morning, stare at what
my old tutor would have described as
juxtaposition and I gaze
at my feet reflected in the glass.
There they are – floating, baseless.
I walk my ghost through the playground
of clouds, thin air, standstillness, stupor.
Photo and words Kushal Poddar