The Boy With The Tandoor

There's a resturant downstairs,

With a traditional style tandoor,

And a young boy in front of it,

All night, until the service ends.

With the temperatures on the higher end,

Even after the sun sets,

I see him in front of a tandoor,

Stamping rotis and naans inside it,

While I stand in my balcony,

Staring at the dark sky with white clouds,

Complaining about how hot it is and when will rain arrive.

And, he, there, stands,

In front of a tandoor making sure no roti or naam is charred too much,

While he is being charred by the heat,

Of not just the atmosphere, but of the tandoor.

Every single day,

I have seen him there,

Even before the service begins,

He's there lining up the coal,

Cleaning up the dust and ash,

And setting everything up for service that begins at dinner.

Every single day,

He wears the same Portugal football team's first copy jersey,

Maybe he's a Ronaldo fan,

Or maybe he only found that one jersey from wherever he got it.

I don't think he has anything else decent enough to wear at his work,

I hope he doesn't think it's embarassing.

I wish he earns enough,

And eats enough after feeding everyone all night,

I hope he gets to taste his own rotis and naans,

I wish he gets to own the real merchandise one day,

Of whatever team he likes,

Of whichever sport he prefers,

I hope he has lots of them one day.

I hope he doesn't go on to hate tandoors,

Maybe he won't,

Maybe he'll be grateful to it,

For helping him survive these hot nights,

I hope he's as soft as the rotis he bakes,

Despite the heat of life.