Window leaves a dozen leaves
on my rain damp bedsheet.
I have nothing for a return gift.
I begin to sing.
The tunes are mostly unfixed.
On a piece of barbed note
I stumble and bleed memories.
made us a rice platter, and that
had a distinct rusty iron nail flavour.
The blood still stains my toilet bowl.
We sang a thanksgiving song
that evening, were thankful
to be able to leave our houses
in a not so distant future.
Image and words
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/