Collar Men

by Manik Sharma

I crawled through the fashioned streets
Warding off eyes with grief pouring out
like the mailbag of the postman, i never think off
He waits under a borrowed umbrella
Waiting for the ink on his own letters to dry
He carries them around all the time
with names in them,
he wishes someone knows
The asphalt grass cleaves to his boots
Like a few torn pages from
his book of gods and their coming,
He lowers his head and disappears
among the dripping collars of grown men
that i live inside day and night
I stand behind glass doors,
It's not my sun that is setting