Stamping

In a corner of my mother’s kitchen cupboard,
there was a brown glass and a plate, slightly cracked,
“Reserve them for the Help”, she’d snap
“Don’t drink from them, keep them at the back.”
There was separate access from the back yard,
for those ones, who sat on small benches, close to the ground,
They’d talk in a tone submissive, head bent, hiding their glow
I remember my Grandma’s voice trampling them below
But now we’d sip plain tea at the roadside shop
Teacup clutter amidst the hands washing-
them all together, mixed, in one big tub
shower them with hot water, for a warm touch
Yellow and green notes crisp out of wallets,
now read the signboards for the floors, as the escalators paused
They’ve become the wings to soar the skies above chalets
They’ve become the iron feet stamping the little shallots