Sunday, November 15, 2009


On pearly mats, he walks the groping shore
Head lights don’t scream, yet it’s quiet before.
The hundred streams froth with malice,
Surging, seeping into one sea of filth
All the water from the sky is black
Posts lining lost streets; spiders and golden wasps.
In the gathering light, the city breathes again.

Both he and I get to work, hawk and hate;
Even now it rains, so much for rain.
Puddles fly at him from under the wheels.
Sometimes, the glass rolls down
A fumbling hand drops a note, a coin.
He mouths blessings, rubs clean the panes.
Sometimes, there’s a baby in his arms
He bites his lip, pinching it; now another coin.

Dust and its heat, the shadow in the light;
All his life ensnared, in webbed fingers.
But, for a word, a jeer he spat in mirth,
I drove away; the khaki heckled him and cursed.
A distinct whoopee pierced the sky,
I fled, darting ahead of his angry swipe.
Sea salt swirled; pricking my eyes,
Too early in the day for tears, so say
Motors whirring again; steel blurs in the rain.

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