At midnight in Mumbai the air is heavy
The ocean is a dress of rippled silk
The night props its elbows on the water's surface
There's a waxy full moon quiet in the air
Across the water, the city is sequined by golden light
A string of Swarovski crystals
The locals call this glowing strip across the water
“The Queens Necklace”
My friend and I walk slowly
Passing a joint with a bit hashish
Back and forth and back and forth
Finger pressed to thumb
Inhale and exhale
Laugh and speak, laugh and speak
A street child walks toward us
A barefooted boy
Luminous nut-brown eyes
A protruding rib cage
Skin so dark he’s almost purple
The street child holds a bouquet of roses
Roses losing life
Gray edges claim red space
Crispy in their brittleness
The street child asks if we’d like to buy a rose
I say “no thank you” and he hears my Yankee tongue
He speaks to my friend in Hindi and says
“You don’t need to buy my roses but can I tell you a poem?”
We say yes
In a voice clear and sharp he recites a poem in English
His eyes widen as he speaks
His little body grows rigid in attention
The cracked asphalt becomes a stage
I hear the words of Walt Whitman
Ascend from his hungry mouth
At midnight in Mumbai
A street child is alone
Selling dying roses
So poor he can’t afford shoes
He recites a poem from memory
He glows a bit brighter
He stands a bit taller
He looks a bit wiser
And I know why art is important
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