Do not talk to me of Hiroshima, he said
Surprising the nurse with one free hand.
Not fourteen anymore and not quite forty,
He had manned the pickets for over a week
Within the tear gas amphitheatre.
Briefly, the sea of khaki had parted
For an elderly teacher who, bewildered,
Called them his children and urged surrender.
I had taught you the futility of ruin,
He had exclaimed, barely heard above the roar
And then before he could say more,
Baton met bone and he dropped like a stone.
Not fourteen anymore and not quite forty,
He remembered a class, cool and assured,
A firm hand writing Hiroshima in white chalk.
A boot cracked on it and the watch it wore,
Spilling spirals of timekeeping on the sidewalk.
Do not talk to me of Hiroshima, he muttered to himself
As the nurse turned away and the cuff tugged at his hand
A manacled oarsman in an ancient land.
About The Author
Kaustuv Ghosh writes regularly in the Story Hall, Poetry Palace and The Junction, in Medium. He has been published in the Singapore Poetry Blog, Unpublishable Zine and Versification Zine. He draws on predominantly American traditions for style and words, especially Frank O’ Hara and Robert Penn Warren as well as the dense tropical urban landscapes of Southeast Asia.
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bandit. 
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