It would be dark if not for the auto driver, his friend and my mother
When the morning sun rises
Naked men lay at our feet
And they will not rise when spoken to
When the evening river ripples
Skinny men bathe in Mutha’s waters
And they will not dry when made aware
When the night sky covers
Shivering men sleep atop our houses
And they will not warm themselves when poked
And what of the driver and his copper rick
He offers water that is pure
And we share names
And he reaches out his hand
To someone that is his best friend
And my Indian mother
In her small house
That smells like ginger
Or sometimes peanut chutney
But rings of laughter when her son comes home
And he who waits thirty minutes for a bus he will not take
Even though he has money to make
To ensure safe passage
For a woman he will not know
Or, perhaps, it is dark
And nakedness is to own nothing
Skinniness is to consume too little
And shivering a sign of coldness
And I think,
How good it is that we love suffering
