The Feet That Ran The Miles

By Christina Mariam Das

Light showers adorned the windows,

lucky drops that escaped the falling,

a calm evening saw familiar scenes replaying inside,

scampering feet and polite tones,

polished shoes and slick forms,

took orders with pasted smiles,

hushing the evening rush.

Blinding headlights shone afar,

posh cars pulled up in pride,

sparkling crowds emerged from within,

precious, precious chanted the voices

at each other’s adornments flashed in delight.

From far came he,

Sprinting the miles,

With little feet sore and cold,

bare but in a hurry.

Barely hung his patched shirt,

protruding bones portraying his reality.

Cold air hovered over him

Yet he ran the streets,

Through his gritted teeth.

Menacingly pranced the little feet,

halting at once in his well reserved spot.

Merciless sweat haunted the chefs,

kitchen heat beating the chilly day,

hams, bacon and greens plated in perfection.

In triumphant colors displayed,

sweets, desserts, wine and cocktails

that ran the mouth dry.

As rising steam fogged the windows

the little visitor quivered.

As the fog cleared away,

He stood in awe,

savoring the ethereal moment.

Tables covered in royal attire,

served the pleasure of those higher,

some tables dined in silence,

in cold ambience,

some talks loud and boisterous,

covering the other in layers of genuine flattery.

In a torpid wave,

a man complained,

of unseasoned food,

served in grandeur,

the little eyes longing for a place inside.

Platters of food filled his eyes,

Each spoonful eaten inside,

rumbled his ever grumpy stomach.

Swallowing mouthfuls of flavored air,

the little feet ran back,

holding his breath,

devoured the bland dinner

with the savory breaths that he took in.

Unfolding tales of unseen worlds,

on and on he rambled,

of grandeur and posh.

In endless wonder stared his loved ones

to belong to a world they were denied.

The windows of the hotel held,

little palm prints,

that dirtied the polished glass.

By Christina Mariam Das