utilitarian beauty

plastic bags digging in-

to her palms, leaving

red welts

where they had hung

all the way

from town to home,

her hair a bit sticky,

strands rebelling

against her chignon,

conniving with sweat

tracing an easy line

down the curve

of her cheek-bone,

her thoughts already on supper

and a much-needed

soapy scrub, utilitarian

to the core of her cotton

saree, pinned, austere,

starch only adding

to the strictness of her demeanor,

not a hint of a rose-

neither in her chignon

nor on her person,

with just grit and grime

for perfumed whiffs,

why does she still

make me puff up

with pride?

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