Kushal Poddar

The pond will never freeze. The phenomenon
keeps the coffee drinking, photo comparing and
internet surfing crowd from the cities and metros hot.
Tim regrets never ice-fishing he has read
so much about. We even crack dirty jokes about ice-holes.
The pond will never freeze. We caught Golden Rainbow Trout
last autumn. Leaves surrounded our ankles. Water
was already cold. Sun rose clean with a hint of peat and fell
like a finish of a cheap and young spirit we can afford.
The pond will never freeze; Tim circles the body of ripples.
Gentle breeze. Sun snows onto the ground. Tim’s shadow
wins over his flesh. There exist his house, if he takes the homebound trail,
I if he cares to call and kill time, his father if he wants to go back
to the job at their family tea stall, but he stalls time and lets the snow
shroud him, and this is it. I have nothing more to tell you this time.

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