Devanshi Khetarpal

(17th March 1999 / Bhopal)

Little Lamppost

There's nothing
Going wrong.
That made me
Think of the times,
When things were easy.

There was a hole
In my heart
Which was filled
Up with the redolence
Of the stones.

I would walk past
Every corridor,
My footprints piercing
Through the linoleum
As I sip my tea.

My horn-rimmed
Glasses were going
Black as they
Lost their way
Into the mist.

The yakamoz has
Wiped the water
From the sea and
I am still waiting
For the tides to come.

Little windows
Have turned their
Bodies into milky
Glass. They broke
Out at midnight.

Is waiting for me
At the door and the
Doorbell has bellowed
But I am still sleeping.

I see cullacino
On my favourite
Table until I go
And get a tablecloth
To put it to sleep.

No! It was time.
Iktsuarpok isn't good
For health. But I
Check out anyway.
Nope! No luck.

As I look through
Komorebi, I play
The tunes while
The noises still go
On in my head.

And the garbage,
Has been dumped.
Nasty pochemuchka!
I never saw one
Like that.

That was the end
Of the main course.
The dessert was
Asleep and the
Sobremesa ensued.

The wind
Became a Jayus,
I couldn't help
But smile. My first
In ages!

There's no way
To get out. I've lost
My hair so the
Pana Po‘o won't
Help either.

As I sit,
Sipping Aztec
Coffee, I cut
My hand in

Skimming through
Pages as I lie
Under the sheets
With words, I understand
What 'Goya' means.

As I sit on
The street,
With a cigar in
My palm,
I see the ashtray.

There's some
Mangata still
Left in my tears.
I collected them in
A jar of fireflies.

I watch
The little
Coping up.
It will die.
The lights
Are flickering.
I was supposed
To meet him
Till it's alive.
Now, I won't.
That's good.
If I could
Only spit

Submitted: Friday, September 27, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 27, 2013

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