Chappal

Made of rough fabric,

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.