Road Trip

The whole of India is covered in dust,
in my nose, eyes, grit in my mouth.
A naked child in a "play pen" cage sits crying in the dirt,
inhaling a coughing highway.
People's lives are spent on the side of the road;
walking, resting, cooking, weaving trays of coconut through traffic jams of
cars, trucks, scooters jammed with people.

And the eyes;
always looking, staring at these pale faces peering back from the other side of the glass;
these women who, inches away, inhabit a far away world.

The whole of India is covered in dust,
In my nose, eyes, grit in my mouth.
There are no clean feet in India.
But the smiles of children are radiant.