Pussyfoot
He was wading through the frozen pain
unhappy at himself.
Staring vacantly at the blurred stars.
Who was not guilty when the staircase
collapsed? The half-men were busy
in arranging to open the trap door.
Amplified hunger was spilling like
acid rain, changing the colour of
fault-line, kindled bellies.
A twin murder has yet to be resolved.
There is no more pursuit of the menace
and the fear lurking under the dirty eyes.
Green stomach sends the odor,
becomes a reminder of stones in the bowl.
The thick men are walking on air.
SATISH VERMA
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