In Traffic

A red light kinks traffic
And the exhaust from a thousand engines
Finds its way into our rickshaw.

A woman comes to us
Her hand outstretched
Reaching for spare rupees.
She holds in her arms a two year old boy.

His shirt is green with blue stripes.

He is sleeping, but too deeply.
Surrounded by thick heat and blaring horns
his rest is out of place.

I remember Ada's words,
What she told me my first day here.

"Children don't sleep like that.
Gangs drug them to keep them still and quiet while the woman beg.
A woman with a baby always brings in more."

His shirt is green with blue stripes.

I look again
and I can see his circulatory system
designed with such care;
a small heart in the center
pumping poison throughout
his frail frame.
A careful cocktail
More fitting for a junky's fix.

His shirt is green with blue stripes.

I shake my head 'no' and look away
But she stands her ground,
having been told how foreigners fold
to starving mothers with sad eyes.  

The digital clock on the stoplight counts down,
declaring a minute left.
I set my eyes forward but still they see the boy
Drawn to him without control.

His shirt is green with blue stripes.

My head spins and I realize I'm holding my breath
As though if I don't breathe I can keep him out.
As though I won't have to carry him for the rest of the day
and long into the night.

Eventually I have to breathe.