From the land of yellow dust
Where the air is redolent of nostalgia
And everyman hides sorrow in his breast
Comes a soul with a bag filled with paraphernalia.
He meets me at the local mart
Tired but in his motives – steadfast.
He says he is looking for a place
To bury his sorrows and quietly efface.
So we sit at the local joint
Eat chicken and while our time.
From the conversation I learn
That he met an accidental death,
Left behind two daughters, a son
And a grief stricken wife on bed.
He says he had a dream once but…Alas!
It still hangs on the clothesline in his backyard.
Saddened, I offer him my humble abode -
A place where he may freely spread his soul.
He politely refuses, seeking one last desire -
If only the bag could meet his fate on the funeral pyre.
I tumble the bag to find a crumb of bread,
Torn job ads, matinée tickets, few unhealed wounds,
And an old woman’s photograph, perhaps like him, dead.
© Dan Husain
April 26, 2005