Carpet
I saw once in Jaipur an upper room
filled with rows of boys
embroidering saris
stretched taut on open frames
kneeling
their eyes squinting close as the
golden thread
vanished and appeared in the silk.
In the room below, a wiry man
flung water from buckets over
freshly-woven carpet.
Whiskered, shirtless,
he brushed the water with
a bundle of reeds
to open the fibers.
Vibrant blues and crimsons
bloomed through the soap suds
with each swishing stroke.
The factory owner surveyed his kingdom
with knees spread wide
lauding the workmanship
driving a bargain
dressing the floors of my home.
His belly ballooned over its
gleaming belt buckle
oiled shoes two-stepping
back from the sludge.
The man with the reeds
bent sharply at the waist
peering closely at the golden weave
refusing to lift his eyes.
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