Fettered Poem by Pinaki Dewan

The loss sleeping
inside the clock
smiles dourly
at the glum silhouette

of dawn. It nudges
the stirring eyes,
says it is real
and real tarries

the windows and
the skin like a
shiver or a touch,
perhaps forced.

But no one knows
when you wake up
and begin to cook
for the day, your

hands move
automatically
as if programmed to
that servitude
and you know you

love it and hate it
and you don't do it
for either, it's that
you don't know what

else to do with that
loss and that real
that has taken away
your imagination.