Installment Driver

Installment   Driver short poem

Photo by torbakhopper


When my parents wished me to drive back home
The first half , I said
No dear ,I brought a two wheeler ,let me wage the installment
The second half , I said
No dear, I brought a car , let me wage the installment
The third half, I said
No dear ,I brought a plot, let me wage the installment
The fourth half, I said
No dear, I brought a villa ,let me wage the installment
Year later I wished to drive back home
Yet again I wage the installment
For the empty chair and vacant cot.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (2 votes, average: 3.50 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of Prajitha Nambiar

Prajitha Nambiar

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
 Prajitha Nambiar is a short story writer and a novelist. She is working as software engineer in Bangalore city. She writes both in English and Malayalam.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

A Guardian In Your Eyes, A Thug In Their Eyes

A Guardian In Your Eyes, A Thug In Their Eyes long poem

My innocent little sister In your eyes You see me as a guardian Shining bright with a halo over my head Wings as pure as jade A mountain that doesn’t move Even when the earth shakes When the thunder strikes

#metoo

#metoo prose poem

I was scrolling through a few of the #MeToo posts on my timeline, when, I thought I’d bring a few questions clawing my mind, to the society’s attention – How could you throw the unassuming girl child to the ants,

Is This How You Love?

Is This How You Love? short poem

You have no problem leaving me behind. You can easily put me out of your mind. It’s like my presence puts you in a bind. I bet every time you see me you wish you were blind. You told me

The Prince, The King And The Master

The Prince, The King And The Master long poem

The shrine of Madonna stood tall, The high king’s rapier fell down, not anymore was he the young prince, for he was devoid of all feelings. The shrine of Madonna stood strong, The high king’s blood washed the ivory pedestal,

Who Was Me?

Who Was Me? short poem

A misbelief breaks into rags. Still I dream of some gods on black pages piecing together the words of light. The rains come in the cage of tears, voicelessly. Striated muscles of splintered faith go to cramps birthing the avatar