The
Leftovers..
SK Iyer
Serving in the wayside restaurant,
unlike vassals
held fief and toiled,
holding on to my life I moiled,
cleaning tables,
throwing away leftovers
among the greedy dogs behind the fence.
For a
while, setting my eyes
on the fighting dogs, I would weep
thinking about
my supper of leftovers.
And always tears
before sleep embraced the
night,
eyeing the umbrella with a thousand holes,
light struggling for a
passage to earth,
I would lay on the charpoy,
knocked out by
tiredness.
Looking back now I smile,
as I cross my fiftieth
year,
drubbed past writhes in pain
under the comforts of my future.