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I was walking in the busy botley crowd,
Yet alone, nibbling my left finger, for the right
Hand was laden with the load of vegetable bag,
A sudden noise stops me:
Tut! Tut! Tut!
The measured beat on the road,
It was a walking stick,
Serving just as a third eye
As a vision of wisdom for the lost man,
The stick slender but sturdy
Substitutes his loss of his leg,
I was pondering at the philosophy,
Machines move, man is marooned,
Tut! Tut! Tut! the fast moving vehicles
The man on the moped,
All despaired driven to a halt,
The handicapped, was muttering,
Cursing the polio that affected him young
Even unable to wipe the sweat on his forehead,
Yet he buried his pains for long long ago reconciled
His loss of the vital part of his existence.
Not one impediment but many- the sweat, the heat
And the melting tar and the jarring sound of the horns
Impatient yet impossible to nullify,
“cursed be the polio, cursed be the polio,”
his lips muttered as he moved along the crowd,
suddenly the handicapped senses the crossing of a dog,
he stops tut! Tut! Tut!
He cannot afford to be as impatient as the others,
Nearby a cellphone or mobile rings softly.
For it reminds he needs be different.