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The Copper Bowl
by
Mani Iyer |
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If it weren’t for the stumps
of his hands,
occasionally swatting those
irritable flies, and
the copper bowl
in the center
of his squatted presence,
you could easily mistake him, for
a heap of dead human flesh.
The creased bowl was always filled
with the grace of
humane beings, and
he acknowledged them
with a twitch of a smile,
perhaps painful,
due to unrelenting nerves, and
his hands, that failed to meet,
raised in gratitude.
You could never see his legs
beyond the cracked bowl, for
he had none, and
you wondered how
he conducted life’s daily rituals
on a roller board, and
appear like clockwork
for years, at the same
latitude and longitude.
Nobody knows what became of him
when his abode of the street corner
near a temple,
was disinfected, and
there was no sign
of his defiance, nor
his life-sustaining bowl, and
the once stubborn flies
left, no tombstone.
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--Submitted by mgiyer on 2011-10-26.
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