a poem that should not have a title
i have come to believe
that my home is real.
the cup slips from my hand,
falls to the floor,
and breaks with a sound.
my home
has learned my name.
even the mirror
knows who I am.
government men arrive
and write out a receipt for my house.
there is no extra charge
for the blue on the walls.
my home
begins to chew on me,
then swallows me whole.
my home
cannot feed my hunger.
so I go
to work in someone else’s field.
autumn.
at the corner of the neighbourhood,
i notice the sky
has changed its colour.
i buy a new tube of toothpaste
from the grocer
and return home.
beside the window,
a bed lies awake all night.
i am there too.
i enter the house
carrying a handful of dust.
everywhere,
there are so many traces of me.
my home
keeps me alive.
Copyright © Murari Sinha | Year Posted 2026
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