Penurious Fella

In his curious eyes,
the spinning world reflects,
Under the bleak skies,
Cozy in his mother's arm, she selects,
Her next spot for food, pity and despise.

Gazing upon his coevals in white and blue,
Why none his own not a clue,
His fate not his choice,
A kite a shooting star the same for this soul,
Next to his mother's dulcet voice,
A coin tinkling in his rusty bowl.

Into the sidewalk cracks innocence seeps,
Water, sweat and blood on an equal scale,
His own hands to tame his woeful peeps,
All but for a bit of kale.

Food, fantasies and curses on his daily plate,
A puff, a sip, a bread his only solace,
Blood and fists, all they adjudicate,
Countless steps he wishes to retrace,
Bruises follow pride,sadness do love,
Cursing above, his fate he wove.

Empty pockets full of worry,
He has to look his family in the eye,
The sole breadwinner in a shabby terry,
Carrying, sweeping, pinching his daily bread,
Not a chosen path along which he must scurry,
Doors shut, the same path his child must tread.

Bones ache as the curtain draws near,
A ubiquitous wrinkled hand under a raised bowl,
A loner, bittersweet memories he has to bear,
Coerced smiles in lieu pity behind a silent yowl,
Tank empty, life rolls in a neutral gear.

Hard to breathe, hard to walk, easy to long,
The welcoming paradise, an awaited death,
Smiles and tears as he sings his mother's song,
On the sidewalk, world afar takes his last breath,
Eyes invited by the accumulated canine cries,
The world reflecting in his dull dead eyes.

-Gairik Biswas