Wingless Angel

Her perfect body like an Indian untouchable
wanders through the hollow streets.

The monsoon drags its faucet
in a wondrous bucket.

A tuk tuk fibs
against purple silk.

Her skin is dark and homeless
but guiltless as a storm.

Her smile fetches flying wheels
in temples of sex.

And in the morning
I seek her in the dirty Ganges.

On the wrong side of the river
stands Gandhi’s evil twin.

Only the wings are missing
from my angel now.