Saturday Market
At the market
we line up
for kale.
Dark green leaves
and yellow flowers.
Coffee dripped blue
and cream in bottles.
Dogs on leashes and babies running loose.
The sun on our backs
and frost in our mouths.
My fingers numb with the morning.
Here, the Asian women watch you
to see how many samples of pear you’ve eaten,
then shake their heads when you do not buy.
Parking is difficult
and the maids are always out with pen in hand
ready to ticket.
On the corner a man plays a milk crate
and broken guitar
hoping for change.
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