Ageing Sunset Phlegm

 

Breathlessness checks in
a little after three,
signs my lungs’ guestbook.
Its scrawl clog the log.

The corridor awash with ageing
sunset phlegm smells like
expired cough syrup.
Someone whispers – Elvis is dead –
probably from another decade.

The hotel’s edifice slow-sinks in
what my friend Nick would nickname
the seabed of pins.

I usher a gust of pain downstairs.
Life’s luggage bends me down.
I recall a few tales from ancient age,
think of the rolling stones.

 

 

 

 

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
Picture Nick Victor

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