photo by Christine Hewitt
Hospitality's Served in Tin Cups
She’s on a side street of Lakshmipurim,
here in
India,
around the corner from chai wailing wallahs,
and down the street from men working hard as their mules.
Wedged, as India prefers, between rags and rituals;
Not too close to poor, but miles away from money.
She’s just wave of the hand to catch a ride away –
from the marble
American dollar worship
in hotels.
That
hospitality can only open doors,
he’s
paralyzed without pay.
But she is served in
small metal cups of rice pudding,
Lumpy but so kind, sugary milk, she welcomes us.
She is in her offering of blue plastic chairs (her finest).
She sits on the floor and smiles and stares
she brings her family to watch too. So we’re sure they care.
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