A First Day In A Developing World

Morning. The sooty film on his cherub face
2 years, some months, the quanta of days
Flushed in joyful waddle through the gutter
We wander. He, with me, passed sleepy cabs
Tread slumbered bodies heaving of cardamom
Of saffron and of tea they are made hoarse
As rivals clamoring for quiet pavement space--
We shove. Potbellied street child coddling street dog
They snore into a grandmother's armpit. These siblings
Unlike we, ripen dreams that do not sour in daylight.