Lotus

 

A discards and junk pile,--

a heap of things having run their last mile;

lying at home,

Rust and dust winning over chrome,

I take it to a dump site,

Fly there scavenging black kite,

A foul-smelling hill

giving a repulsive, obnoxious chill;

strikes you with a stunning sense shrill,

A reverse pit

for our consumerist soul’s shit,

Hanky on the nose

avoid we hellish dose,

The stinking heap,--

excreta born of our growth and leap,

My junk I throw

with breath paused and tensioned brow,

Then I see him work

amid all this squalor and murk,

He works with poise and ease,

Scavenging consumer shit for meager lease,

This is the junk worker’s

office, factory, firm and field

welcoming him with its tiny yield,

He looks at me with a smile,

A flower in odor vile,

He isn’t ashamed or apologetic about his job

where scavenging rodents throb,

He sorts the squalor with ease

unbothered about the dirty, repugnant squeeze,

This is the dirty pit of his karma holy,

Absorbed he is without complex and folly,

His gentle toil

in the mucking soil,

He squeezes the muck

for some survival buck,

His bearing shows he honors it,

Doesn’t cringe and complain a bit

unconcerned about all this shit,

As I dump the waste,

He welcomes me with a smile chaste,

I forget my running haste,

Looking at his smile and honor to his task

without any frowning mask,

I feel at ease

and make him tease,

‘My junk won’t have much,

it's worthless such,’

No problem, he says

with a smile as if he prays,

From my pile takes a little cardboard box,

smiles like a pleased clever fox

and says thank you

with a bright, clear, clean soul’s hue.