You carry the bowl of milk carefully, carefully down the road, not spilling a drop into the dust. Three men wrapped from head to toe in dirty rags approach, demanding milk and berries. Your little arms are too weak to fight back. The Rag Men picnic on the roadside and drink strong wine afterward. They black out from drunkenness and fall into a deep, dreamful sleep. Crows land on your battered body. You wonder what the UFO crash would have been like. You gaze at drifting clouds. You regard, with disgust, the bloodied, buttoned sleeve of your shirt, the muddy trousers, the scuffed, buckled boots. Some day, you think, you'll have some rags of your own. |