Apologies to the Shakarkandi Wallah PDF Print E-mail

by Michael Creighton

Nestled in spent coals,
in a clay bowl that sits in a box on the back
of the Atlas cycle he is pushing through this market,
is all that remains of his day’s work:

 

a single, once-warm sweet potato.
 
Since morning, he has peeled and sliced and sprinkled
dozens of these with lemon and spices,
and now, with less than an hour to go
before dark, I see him lean hard
on his handlebars.
 
I know what it would take to send this man home early:
one plate for me and one for the kid
picking through the garbage bin on the corner just ahead.
But today I can’t find the stomach
for cold shakarkandi.  And now
 
he is swinging himself up
onto his cycle, wobbling,
on his way to the next market;
and now he is calling: shakar—
shakarkandi!


Michael Creighton is a fifth grade teacher who lives in New Delhi with his wife and three kids. His poetry has appeared in kaleidowhirl, The Sunday Oregonian (US), The Asian Age (India), and  Verseweavers, the Oregon State Poetry Association’s annual anthology of prize winning poetry.
 
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