Tell me a story.
In a grubby fifth-floor walk-up, a solemn child with eyes as wide as
quarters tugged on her sister’s real satin skirt (scavenged from the
trash of an old theatre company eight blocks north), and asked her for
a story.
Just like me?
Exactly like you.
And the girl in satin gathered her gently.
On the other side of the world, a quiet girl with skin burnt black
by the heat of the sun sat down by the old man in the firelight (as he
cast shadows of antelope running across the plains), and asked him for
a story.
Just like me?
Exactly like you.
And the old man patted her burnt-black cheek.
In a land where the sun only comes out once every moon’s-turning, (the
rain falls as gently as flowers, as persistently as blowing sand), a
tired boy with sweat falling like the rain turned to his friend at the
factory, among the machines, and asked him for a story.
Just like me?
Exactly like you.
And the friend in gray smiled wearily.
And told him a story.
*****
M.A. Mohanraj
December 2, 1992