The Guava Woman’s Crèche

Fruit seller, arranging guavas in piles;
Woman, how far did you carry the basket
Before you found that shady tree
At the street’s crowded corner?
Traffic roaring perpetually past
Covering pale green orbs with dust.
“This pile, three for ten
That, three for fifteen and the other
Three for twenty; small, bigger, biggest.
Saab, lady, mine are the best.”

Remembering sweet-tartness, salivating,
People taste them with their eyes.
A matronly woman stoops and buys.
“Give me an extra, I am taking six
Of the small for twenty, so give me seven.”
“Okay, lady you are my first buyer,
So take the seventh.”
The guava woman drops them
In a plastic bag and glances at
The toddler, quiet and fat
Sitting in the dust, solemnly
Picking straws from the basket’s edge.
The old sari, tiny baby looped inside,
Swings slowly from the tree beside.
Full time, proudly self-employed
Working mother, she;
With her own alfresco crèche
Of tree and old sari.