Doesn't Matter Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

I lost my watch—
not that it was necessary,
more of a habit
to wear.
Attachment—perhaps,
and a white patch
on my wrist.
A patch on the road—
I broke my leg;
so many break their legs
and live with bandage.
Turning, turning—
the spring of the watch;
it must have stopped by now:
doesn't matter.
Some blood and tissue lost,
I suppose they'll be restored;
if not, a visit to hospital again—
doesn't matter.
The road will be repaired soon,
that's the news I gather—
yes, from the market:
election.