To Jack Foley
On the day death takes a stroll
along my friend, bereaved,
and shows him the bramble
and the bushes, blossoms and ivies
of his wife I walk almost alone except
an unashamed sun, saunter on
the other shore of the ocean.
The sets of our lives pace, and death
tells my friend what tiredness
whispers to me, “Looking back is
looking ahead. One needs not turn, spin.”
My pal pants, wipes his brows; I press
a button to summon an opening in a door;
he steps in and stays motionless midst
the midday graveyard; I ask the bus conductor
if it will journey across time and feel foolish
because everyone and everything does.
.
Kushal Poddar
.
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe