Poetry

A detritus
of malaise, tugs at my solitary hour.
There was a question of stature
amongst the old fractured feet.

What was it which made you feel
taller than your own son?
I was looking at the antlers of a deer,
his round eyes were full of pallor,
I begin to talk in his tongue.

The terror of a man, a speeding car,
my childhood, moving in the dark corridor,
afraid of the unending highways.


Satish Verma