If she were to shed tears; they would reflect hunger. Still, she offers me a mud-ridden hand.
I take it. Under the dirt the skin feels delicate.
I watch her un-washed head rotate from one side to the other.
Her eyes examine the distance, then pose as signals. I feel the pull on my arm and she escorts me.
Her naked feet stride through the screaming traffic. I feel like the child.
Seven. Maybe. I think. No older.
After her deed, she re-claims her hand.
I’m left to watch her walk back to the filthy pit she calls Home.
