The junkie in the night’s
cold money cubicle drowns deep.
The false ceiling’s downlight flickers,
now the room is limited in its shape,
and in the moment next limitless.
One or two vendors and once in
a while someone buying a girl
all know as Hooch enter,
lift their legs one at a time,
cross the threshold shaped like
a man, crucified on his bottom,
void, saliva and stink.
They use their cards, take their
paper thin dreams, put them in
their pockets and purse their concerns
about the man on the floor,
a mosaic of the East, details
chipped and seen often, quite forgotten.
High on those crispy drugs they disappear into the riverside dark.
The night someone calls a cop
Hooch rolls the junkie behind
anything bigger than his size;
this seems easy. Half of him,
never the flesh, drowning deep,
happily dying in the undefined id.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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