A blackbird rotates its solitary
cawing. Its din, diamond cut,
gives wings to the dark sparkles.
They fly to the random corners
of this close compartment.
I wonder; my sight wanders
with that harsh sound and light.
The bird has no desire,
only some questions.
“Go tell the bees: soul decays, albeit
it cannot leave.” No messenger
inside, nothing is conveyed.
Outside, the views of the world
queue in front of my senses
for enlistment. “King is dead.”
I mutter on a bad day. Long live
those other days.
Slow
Do I like riding bus?
Sometimes, yes.
My colleague grins,
“That’s why you ride
the slowest bus for the work.”
I have never noticed.
I never do, know not
if my ride runs a snail-race
in the arena for the rats.
I agree with my colleague.
I cannot save the world
like a gentleman spy,
because while the civility wanes
my bus will stammer
a rhyme about the trees, houses,
parks, streets, and the roads,
and I will hear it with my ears
pressed against the glass panes.
Kushal Poddar
Illustration Nick Victor
@amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe