He would trudge home
Grimy and exhausted,
After corseting buildings with bamboo all day.
Moth eaten, wooden polls,
Held together with thin coir string,
Around dreams that reach
Up to catch the wind.
Lives depended on it,
And by the flickering kerosene lamp
The rice gruel boiling on the wood fire,
He inks elegant, moving verse.
His voice still floats through my reverie as I gaze up into the night sky.
Gosh, I think, “the only reason I get away with some of the tripe I write,
Is because I publish on a blog”