That Stranger Could Have Been Him
Late night, and because I
read about him in an antique poem that evening, I ask the stranger I met
in the morning street beside
the last red box for posting your words
and ignored when he begged, ‘Why
didn’t you reveal your real identity?
Why does everything need to be
a test of trust?’
The ancient God says in my dream,
‘I am shy, and you would not have
believed me.’ I do not when again
we meet near the river, but share a bread,
discuss about the world’s long, long end
and for a pint head together towards an inn.
On The Warm Globe
In this heat all provocations
seem grave and sudden, and
a passerby whispers, ‘I lost
my olfaction after years spent
working at a counterfeit scent
factory, but I can smell you.’
I take a sharp turn, hiss, albeit none
walks under this bright Sun.
The hands of the clock tower cuts open
the can-lid of the midday. I stand knee deep
in the sour blood and dead beans.
I draw a sigil with my shadow, a dot really
at this moment, kept hidden until others
come open with their shadows.
Artwork by Kushal Poddar
ABOUT THE ARTIST
An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, editor of ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated in eleven languages.
Find and follow him at: amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe
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