Garbage
(dedicated to mother India)
The garbage collection van hasn't arrive.
Two hefty black plastic bags, last night's flea blown rubbish,
Waiting to be discarded, I wait.
It's almost ten, the garbage collectors arn't coming, I presume.
Town-garbage-bin is half a mile far, I don't enjoy going there.
Honey, the house stinks - the familiar voice reverbarates.
They arn't coming, the garbage-men, I conclude.
Picking up the junks, I walk out
Into the greased January morning.
Crossing the sewer-culvert, carrying waste,
I move cautiously across a chessboard of human wastes
On the railway track.
Suddenly, flames of rain burn the air, drains become alive.
Uncaringly, a mother-cow sits on a heap of plastic bags, (not a blade of grass around) chewing plastic, I see tears in its eyes.
I may be wrong, how could a cow cry, doubtful thinking.
A car storms pass me, slurry of mud hits me square.
I become garbage.
We stink together.
Don't worry, you are ready for your eternal home,
I hear god saying, raindrops keep burning,
With wet tongues.
Copyright © Ibohal Kshetrimayum | Year Posted 2019
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