Upon Ruining the Rickshaw Economy in Uttara

Every day unbundles pain
for this stranger in his cycle of despair.
I know best his back, his neck,
his ears that receive the street's curses for his mother
and imagine his short trek from womb
to grave, recognise his felo de se,
his customers to supply the means.
After this stint of so called survival
he will take his corner on the street
his hands raised in alms. I see your older colleagues
every day, struck with arthritis, sere, and smiley.
But there are miles still in him.

He drives me home, twenty blocks through Uttara,
under a composition of street and sky and yoke.
What I'm not blind to is the way his left foot
arranges itself, crooked, halfway on the pedal,
a sign of overuse and burning. In bike club
back home we call this hot foot, metatarsalgia.

That alone makes me loathe the guidebooks
which tell us to dicker with the wallah,
to guard our coins with alacrity because
they know how to stretch 50 taka to last a week.
Who say, guard against rickshaw scams,
purse snatching by a lurking conspirator.
Who caution: don't ruin the rickshaw economy for the others,
(with their state of the art cameras, and sightseeing agendas),
or for the ex-pats who have to live here.
But hold on. I aim to over tip,
create a quiet cosmic event,
and to take a smidgen of your life,
for some kind of homage,
some kind of testament for you,
who first thing threw my proffered Cliff Bar
under the seat for your kids. (If you want the wallahs
to drink, open the orange soda before
you hand it over or they will save that too.)

On this street in a 400 year old city
hotter than dog days in New Orleans
 I aim to record your desolate office
in a poem, in a video you will never see,
because sometimes that is all we can do:
go forward as strangers but together,
in an contraption of words,
like a colorful tombstone on wheels.