Futility by Amit Parmessur

A dusty postbox, in eternal wait.
A bottle of Pepsi someone has left
behind. A stairway leading to a lit
up window, with peeling paint on the walls.

They toss my mind into nostalgia. They
remind me of what I could not finish.
Of how failure is a building full of
dark, cramped dens. Of how lunacy is the


right journey in the wrong direction. I’ve
been the blind worm finding its way through damp
earth, slick and sure, until the robin plucked
and pulled me out like a red rope, naked.

I thought love would be having burrs stuck to
my sleeves. And I would later pick them off
and turn them over in the light with a
broad smile. I didn’t know it would be a few

broken bones, or crying like a baby
over three spit-stained words, or a bottle
someone has left behind in the fierce sun.
How can I fall for someone’s nonchalance?

How can I fall for someone’s good morning?
How can I fall for someone’s blank, white smile?
How can I fall for a stranger, and be
a dusty postbox in eternal wait?

About Amit Parmessur:

Born in Mauritius, Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. His writing has appeared in over 160 magazines, namely Galaktika Poetike, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences and turn them over in the light. A one-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Web nominee, he nowadays edits The Pangolin Review.