THE SUSPECT
Anmole Prasad

I wonder if he knows
I’m shadowing him, close
as he goes
Intermittently undulating across
the dead glass windows
Of shops that wait agape, in rows
to consume every now and then
a hungry customer
On Main Road.

Lit up in stark detail now
By the citric winter sun (and how
cruelly reduced to a mere shadow
Across the old Central Bank wall)
He’s reflected over Ferrazzini’s stale pastries
made-up in red, green and yellow,
Tarts after a long night: staring bleary-eyed
At the morning
On Main Road.
A b/w man against a Kodachrome sky
B/w hair, black tie
Raven robe slung high
Over a terrywool shoulder, an arm swinging
a bag of mummified tomes
through the colourfilm throng of passers-by
Both of us caught in this
cloak-and-dagger affair
On Main Road.

Is it possible that he can smell
the surveillance or tell
That all is not well
That his cover’s blown, the case is closed,
I have all the evidence I need
to arrest him? Could he foretell
his being charged
with murdering me
On Main Road?