~Breakfast

The sun would shine on others,
while they would just smile back from the shadows.
Fragments of broken plastic and spit smeared stones
Play with those tiny palms.

Why do the birds fly?
Why does the sun come up in the morning?
When will you buy me a new dress?
The questions are their lullaby in the starry night.
Mother hides her tears
In the faltering light of the only lamp.

Even the stars don’t shine some light on them.

I chat with them for a while
And look into what I might have been

Rags are what they collect, rags are what they wear..
But through those crescents in their moon like faces..
As they take their samosa-pavs home..

They cause a tempest in the pectoral crux.