On this chaotic city street
with cows and cars,
crows, cocks, and cafes,
men emulate
The God of All Things:
calling out to you and me,
and everybody they see.
In his left hand
are little shells,
sankhu from the seashores;
dangling on his arm,
in
the crutch
of his elbow,
malas made of metal
meant for matas marrying men.
His right hand
wields books and bookmarks
that mark
knowledge he may never have,
never read.
Nevertheless, his smile
never misses a beat
from
A beating heart
in
his bare chest
Around which
he wraps a long cloth of red,
(its color deepened
by the pollution in which he lives)
like a garland or necklace
of power and wealth.
It shows
amidst the
bright white smile
set
in his darkened face,
tanned from days
of hard work
in
the sun.
Around his head, another (colorful) cloth
he dons likes a crown
with pride.