Brown, size eight.
Off the main road,
By the Banyan tree,
A chappal sits, sullen.
In misery.
Thrown out off the
Temple yard, kicked out
To the sidelines, don't know
By how many.
A tramp in rags,
Picks up the discarded,
Measuring her against
His foot.
And the kids laugh
As he walks, wearing,
An unsuitable match.
That's how it is,
Recycling, is bad
For capitalism anyway.
For the religion,
It's widow remarriage.