To Market

Butcher beats bloodied meats Baker takes a heavy seat Hands are flour’d, rolling dough ‘round wooded table to and fro, Humming softly, braids and bakes Bread loaves, muffins, pastries, cakes. Olive bar, briny. Plump lumps all soft and shiny. Some are pitted while others, bare, Engorged with peppers, cheeses fare Better than their pitted mates Drying out on doiley’d plates For passerby to pluck and pop Chew up, spit out While they shop. Around the corner fishes stare with cold black eyes and, scaly, wear ice chips chopped from big brick blocks mouths agape, tails curled mid-flop, salmon, tuna, rockfish, crab laid out for hungry hands to grab. Children, cranky, fuss and fret "Time to go?" Oh no, not yet: The cart wheels squeal, high heels keep time as mothers vie for first in line - in hurried hand the checks, they sign. Bag boys bustle by the street, stuffing cars with eggs, bread, meat, then the station wagons wheel away: Another busy market day.