Little one with your garb ill-gathered
who told you you could come here
to live among the terrible people
who don't see you in the hallway
Your presence is an imposition despite
and perfect won't do for the masters born.
Your taste betrays your need for work.
Your inquisitiveness is an unneeded ripple
in the plane of a paradigm set by their fathers.
Let's walk away to the porch by the dusty road
to sit on rocking chairs and observe
carts drawn by horses as we eat mangoes,
letting the sun alter the shadows of trees.
Tell the sun to say goodbye so we can light a lantern
and drink tea with ginger
so the spirits can talk through your grandmother
who doesn't say much but is always cooking.