Indian Train Stations

The doorless exit—no safety
rails or chains in sight, only triangles of dirt
where warnings once were.
The remaining windows sound close to escape.
Half expect to find missing caution stickers
holding the seizing glass to rusted metal.

Think, I know poverty.
Children begging in rubble and rags,
babies on display, tears
streaming down clean cheeks
in front of camera lenses.
A dollar a day can house and feed
Throw us your money
Change the channel,
avoid these commercials.

The heap crawls to a stop, briefly.
Jump the unmeasured distance
from train car to concrete platform.
A man with a wooden leg
follows close behind.
Watch your step, boy
This could be you
The stench of his breath cements
his words into memory.

So little did you know
of the cardboard suburbia
crowded into each Indian train station.
The only charity found here:
groups of storefront owners, armed
with cricket bats and Hindi curses, scaring
away beggars and thieves—
children—for rich tourists.

A small stampede
pours into the street; pounding bare feet
chased by car horns, loud cracks
of wood on broken pavement,
the trumpet of a frightened elephant.
Hide your valuables
Give none your money
Too many mouths to feed
Follow these rules, but still
they swarm. A sea of Untouchable
multiplies, keeps you from taking
one more step.

But they do not want money,
nobody is asking for a hug,
for affection, for empathy, for pity.
Hundreds of young faces scream only
for that half-empty bottle,
clean water clutched
in your left hand.