The first time I met the cat
it was quiet and beyond quietus,
and then it crawled again
and again in my dreams
as light as the paper flags
waved at the parade.
The feline has its own tableau,
unsanctioned and controverted
in the conversation between
I and myself. It happens in winter;
the pith of coldness beats fast
in the rising wind; the leaves
stir up a revolution, settle
with the status quo. I have boyish legs
flowing through the half-pants.
The cat is lifeless. I add
a dictionary to the word - death.
(An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, former editor of Words Surfacing, authored eight books, and his works have been translated into eleven languages)