Another day,
Another bus-stand story.

A wheezing, cataract-ridden
Gypsy’s monkey-in-a-frock
With legs that dance and eyes
That plead for his master.

People mutter, 'Poor man, poor monkey.'

But no small change
Changes hands.

You see him spit
Red betel juice
Intermittently.

As if to tell the world
That he doesn’t really care.
As if to show his contempt
At their pangs of conscience
As heavy and well-fed as their wallets.