The rubber tube that breathes life
into the tired tire of my rusty bicycle
has patches on itself. A call
comes from the crow. It is the time
when the girl throws the leftovers
from her upstairs window. Sun reclines.
The fire tipped trees ferry
the whispering of desire.
Leftovers are life. Life is leftovers.
--
The author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe