The little girl,
about twelve years old,
counting her profits,
for the flowers she’s sold.

The little boy,
mischievous as can be,
cleaning car windshields,
he can’t even reach.

The young mother,
with a baby around her breast,
begging for alms,
to feed the rest.

The infant asleep,
in his mothers arms,
used to the heat,
and the deafening car alarms.

The fat crazy aunt,
abusive smelly slut!
slapping the kids,
and demanding her cut.

The worthless father,
passed out in his filth,
stoned out of his mind,
the roots of this family in the weakest tilth.

I drive by this exit,
each day to work,
the family always there to greet me.

Me, in my air-conditioned car with my heavy metal music.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar