On Mother’s Day

On Mother’s Day
Framed by the hovel door,
The child with matted hair,
And faded and patched frock,
Asks plaintively her mother,
What is this Mother’s Day?
They celebrate it in the school
Beyond our
Dark hovel;
Can we do it here?
With you,
This Mother’s Day,
Maa?
The emaciated
Reed-thin mother gives
A puzzled look,
And says:
Aint heard, child
No such day exists for us,
The poor maids,
Every day I work hard ten hours,
To feed six hungry mouths
By cleaning and sweeping homes
Of the rich, where they do such
Terrific things by cutting cakes,
Clicking pics of fat mothers,
Taking them to movies,
And then lunch in a big hotel;
Here, child,
We have no such day,
As, everyday is a working day for us—
I cannot stay home,
Otherwise I get fired from
The angry them,
And that means less bread for everyone around,
I work and celebrate
Mother’s Day,
My coughing child
But
In a different way,
And your weak smile,
Waiting eyes,
Make my day.