RICKSHAW

You're suspended approximately

A foot above the ground, seated on

A cushion, feet on a small platform.

The machine bearing you abruptly

Swings out into four lanes of traffic.

Buses with people dripping from their

Windows thunder past. Tuk tuk’s scoot

Like clockwork toys. Cars just hoot,

Manically. You’re dependent for

Survival on the guile and strength

Of the man-child pedal pusher. When

You let out a slight gasp at the audacity

Of the trick he’s just executed, and the

Fact you’re still alive, he turns to you,

Taking his eyes off the road, and grins.

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