One cannot calculate Calcutta
Complicated in it's origin
Computed India version
Crushed by the English pound
So much so
It's now an alias
Trying to define its own,
Own
But beneath its modern streets
Sweats
Like bacon grease
A slick residue
A memory
A smell
A taste
That still caresses the senses
Between the revulsion and the spices
Ghost beggars
Not ethereal
But real
Solid scalloped hands
Withstanding sun
And pain
And nothing
By chance
Still seeking spare pence
Not knowing the difference
And still they cry
Remembering Mother Teresa
Embracing those beggars
Beset by boils
Ignoring the incontinence
Of the subcontinent
A saintly division
Of one divided against four million
Somehow evenly spread
And never ending
Jesus fish in a basket of infinity
Feeding ceaselessly
A calculation
One can't calculate
Evenly
Unless
You're blessed
In the miraculous math of the Sister of Calcutta
