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The Coolie The liquid waves of concrete heat stop solar plexus high and knowing knees and callused feet keep rhythm as battered wheels grind gravel and gritted teeth. Bent and thinned, yet equinely poised, the rickshaw stammers empty with invisible foreign weight- and strong tightened sun soaked slits like greedy huckster eyes dart fiercely through chaotic void in quest of next equestrian fares. Far into the cool damp night the journey never ceases, predestined destination, and speaking to the street; his constant dream is he as seated, the jitney pulls itself, the pilgrimage of every tourist's night illuminates, becomes his own. |
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