The slowest hour of the day
Sartre’s good-for-nothing three-o-clock
That is too late, or too early to do anything.

You walk the lanes to while away time.

You see his forehead first:
White ash on black skin
Strewn across the length.
Pigeon-chested, lungi-clad

He climbs into every store
He stops every passer-by.

Seller of rudraksha beads
Strung onto black threads.

He’s so vigorous
In promising prosperity
That you are finally led
Into disbelieving miracles.