Kushal Poddar
Leftovers
To David Lewis
The rubber tube that breathes life
into the tired tire of my rusty bicycle
has patches on itself. A call
comes from the crow. It is the time
when the girl throws the leftovers
from her upstairs window. Sun reclines.
The fire tipped trees ferry
the whispering of desire.
Leftovers are life. Life is leftovers.