A walk with a gutter-girl

what lies beneath

Permafrost reveals; she, on this Sunday morning

over a marmalade on toast, sheds her pelt.

The pelt is brilliant with spots of pink care

and white peace on a blue dream backdrop. Beauty.

This Sunday a fishmonger tells me about

his folks, his hut near a pond. Don’t forget

the loan sharks, promoters pursuing him hard

for lands. All these are standing erect over

a base of love ticking like a rhythmic watch

or a series of habits that never die.

And in the same Sunday morning which is spread

like the marmalade, she sheds her pelt, showing frost.

I cling to the brightness of her fur even

after she’s gone, tranquilly telling me that

love has eloped with time long before this day.

© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is prohibited without permission)

one with a gutter-girl

: I am just a gutter girl

She says indifferently.

Autumn is flowing down

the stream of the gutter.

Soon a proper fall will clog

the channels, dead leaves will rot.

I can smell freedom on her

as our walk ends abruptly

but our conversation roams

through the afternoon’s faint streets.

© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is prohibited without permission)

snippet

Love falls in a pond;

just her luck.

Just her luck

that a frog turns out

to be someone else.

© 2009-Copyright reserved Kushal Poddar (reprinting is prohibited without permission)