Poetry of Issue #7        Page 36

One For The Autumn

'Hello', greets the boy I startled,
pale face, scrawny, 'I'll be your new
neighborly serial killer.'

'Yes.' I nod, 'welcome to the putrescence.'
Moon climbs to the Friday large in its week first.
I nurse some coffee  inches before the midnight,

and the kid still on the tip of the tiny playground's slide
stares at the round haze of light; sleep eludes us both
in the dim although we perform peepiness throughout the day..

'I go by Autumn,' the boy says.
I hold the breath of my mug, moon
rises to its argent best amidst the smog.

'I just buried my best knife.' he says.
We know the grief it may birth.
Haven't we been slow-carving
this precinct's heart out?

  Kushal Poddar