Pollens, Golden Anchovy

A man bicycling,
an empty case of some car battery
tied to his backseat
with the rubbers
from the tubes of two useless wheels,
crosses screaming,
“Shrimp, fresh. Golden anchovy, cheap.”

A woman in housecoat
wants to know the prices
from her flat roof.
Dust rises as the wind accumulates heat
and releases the last cold.

My father whispers,
“Fish used to be my dish.”
as if death can be refreshed only with
the scent of water.

Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

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