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.
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