A Collage

A collage

"Open the window."

"You may catch something."

There descends a bird on the sill

chirping about a colored tale,-

the sick mom and a tired son

with a plastic arm to pick life

won't see and now aren't listening...

bird flies to the other houses.

"Shall I read the news?"

"What is the use, boy?"

"I'll then check the mails."

The insipid mails have white covers

and crème and light brown, even red.

The shuffling of mails is always

a game he plays with hopes and rays

with a tilted cynic bitterness.

"Nope! Surprise, surprise!

It has not come today."

"Tell me when it does."

The roaming cold sighs settle on

the winter garden of negligence.

The worker father has embraced death

and the son is a certified

handicapped with the job letter

still is a dream frequently seen

and waited till the empty cans

refused to be filled on their own.

"Now take care, mom."

"Are you going to

gather foods my son?"

"Let's see uncle

this time. His turn."

He wears his armor, takes his shield.

Gathering foods and to be fed

need the armors and shields these days.

"Come back tomorrow

little yellow bird.

Tomorrow the letter

may bring warm spring."

The mother whispers and the air

carries the message to the birds.

© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar