Acupuncture By Charlotte Reed - Get a Free Blog

Cripple
By Mallika Iyer
When
he drags himself to us across petal-littered gravel,
hardened yellow bits of milk crumbling in his mustache and
ash-fl ecked, fl y-feasted skin tinged a watery saff ron
from that morning’s prayer powders skimming down the gutters
ee calls home;
while he looks at me with eyes squinted over
from the fl ailing dust of passing cars, I look, too
at the city dirt collaged on his shirt,
his withering fl esh cushioned by a puddle of sewage,
before I lower my eyes to save him any
dignity and the coin drops in his palm.
as the auto horns bellow, wet laundry landing with
a thud when it slaps the cement by the river,
he crawls his way down the lane, a man
on all soot-painted fours with
a coin-clenching fi st and a pathway of
stately banyans twisting to the sky,
beckoning him forward.
Th en I wonder:
how many rupees, pennies
in a collection box at the Y,
can put the skip in your step, the jolt in your
walk?
magus ~ 8 ~ mabus