Darsan S.B. // THE OTHER FEAST

To feast like a king

is my specialty.

With my half-rotten apple,

I grow,

I thrive,

and I cherish,

all while keeping my grumbling stomach content.

 

In examining my rusty zinc-plated masterpiece

of a bearded man whose heart must have come right from heaven,

I touch my ashy and puckered skin,

which is covered by prickly, rough bushes sprinkled with snowflakes.

 

As a tall shadow pulls my sunny-side down,

something remarkable enthralls me:

black patent leather shoes.

Curiosity drives my enlivened eyes

to move in the direction of the towering figure’s face.

In their view are sharp-looking and well-fitted space black pants, an authoritative woolen suit jacket—the entire set.

 

The man slowly yet confidently bends down

while simultaneously gazing at me

with his kind angel eyes and furrowed hairs of wisdom,

and grasps my gorilla-rough hand,

on the wrinkled and dried palm of which he places a splendid platter

whose pungent aroma of freshly baked delights

masks the reek of my ragged, sweaty clothing,

and fills my heart with inexpressible gratitude and inspiration.

 

Someday I will be that man

helping a fellow human.

And we will both cherish a treasure.

Not the grand appetite-pleasing one,

but the other one,

the one with compassion.

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