rickshaw

so certain is the driver of the dimensions that slink behind him that he can think about drinking water, he can think about sleeping, he can think about the way his wife's lips hung from her face this morning, one arm draped over the sudden mound of her stomach, the other slung over her eyes in protest to the early sun--while he weaves through the dusty morning market. 

 

his skin wears tough like a baseball mitt--tired but familiar to the daily routine. his calves put on a show as he pedals, but the eyes of his customers are up ahead, watching the road--certain every fish salesman, every child walking to school, every stray dog drunk with the smell of kebabs will wander into the path of the bike. the driver absently fumbles the bell with his left thumb and wonders what his son will look like.