I stare at the passerine
without seeing it improving
this neighborhood scene,
albeit the leaves of dust and
those sleeves of concrete
seem the bright second draft
of my nextdoor writer’s.
The rain, last night’s, has cooled
down everything my skin
by quite a bit. I punish
my elbows by pressing those
against our veranda railings.
Should an epiphany hit
my awakening it is way late,
almost nine AM, and I
stand still in this space
without standing here,
not belonging.
Far below the kid who lit
up his mummy to see
how fast alcohol in bloodstream
burns whistles by.
I drop my heavy coffee-mug.
Kushal Poddar
Words and picture
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