Petrichor

A bulb of tear
Falls down his wrinkled cheek
Down his sand brown coat
To splash on his old black shoe
Before an errant drop
Touches the dusty ground
I wonder if tears can feel the air with petrichor
He wipes them away with a shaky fist
Holds on to my dress and whispers,
“Enewa, please, if you see my son in the city
Tell him to come home to his father.”