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Baby’s got dry mud caked all over his butt and a fringy sailor top on. Squirming on his back like he’s having a baby stroke, heaving his tummy up and down. I’m in a metro station in Old Delhi. There are students and dogs and garbage and shit tons of people and baby and me. I’m looking at a map. Baby’s momma is lounging on the street outside with her lady friends. Her elbow’s on the curb, hand resting her head. She’s gabbing.

I thought that baby was having a stroke until I felt a tap tap tap on my knee and looked down. Little baby with his dirty little finger, smirking baby toothed smile and dry mud caked on his arms too. Motioning his baby hand to baby mouth, baby hand to baby mouth. He has a sneaky smile in his eyes and he’s got his skinny girl arm planted on his jutted hip out with his baby balls hanging and his left foot tapping. What I’m saying is baby’s working it.

Ughhhhhh. I think. Is there anything else to think right now really? Is there anything more profound that I am missing? This baby is a riot. This baby is funny. This baby is hustling. I say  to baby No, I shake my head to baby No. Baby loses his sneaky smile in his eyes, he tips his head to the side, nods, and then prances his naked butt away, plops flat on his back down on the ground and starts pumping his tummy up and down. Baby stroking for someone new.

If there’s a God—dude is twisted.