The Flight

by Kushal Poddar

The rain adds a black coat to the asphalt.

They try hard not to get us wet, and yet

we climb in the jet drenched as if we have

parted a waterfall to enter a secret cave.

Your handbag drops on my head. A baby cries.

When we shall fly we shall fly low, and

the city below will remain the best sight

until the city we want to go will arrive.

Runway runs behind. I tell you that I feel

tired already. The clouds leave a flash message.

I feel tired. I reiterate. Within me a boy, wet, stands

in an unkempt field outside the barbwire fence

and watches me. At an unimaginable

speed we go, but never go far from him.