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CRISS-CROSS

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CRISS-CROSS

Souparno Banerjee

The traffic was terrible,
As I went to the hospital.
To see Janice; an old friend.

As I sat in the car, my palms on my forehead,
Thinking about the day,
A man walked past by,
An old man, in his sixties perhaps,
Too old to cross the way, bent like a tree.

Three hours later, as I entered the place,
I saw the same old man,
All bloodied in the face,
Laid across a stretcher,
Having walked past,
For the second time, in the opposite direction

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