Detour
by Samartha
Vashishtha
waiting like a tangent on my life
to get hold.
The rain beating down outside
like a smiling idol in drought
naughtier and stronger than I’d supposed.
I kept my bag, drank my tea
and feeling for flaws in my bakery biscuit’s curve
tried to forget.
Now – it prodded again.
Now or never.
More now than the now
before this lowly biscuit of yours
swallows world.
I fear now.
Grandfather died
in an urgency to tell me
it is bad omen to keep whistling at home.
Then early next morning
cautious of my looks, walking stiff,
I left again for the place
where masters of universe are taught
how to become
fragments of it.
