The Market

At the market
walking between the mounds
of produce

look down to see your palm
curled around
an oversized mango
swelled with ripeness
smooth and spotted

look across from you
where a woman in a faded red dress
picks over the table of
discounted fruit

while a child, peeking from behind
her swelled legs
rubs a tattered blanket to his cheek

And the smell of fish and dust
reaches up to your nose
as you watch single claw rise
from the fish tank
up and up
towards the sky

you press your thumbs against
the ends of avocados
until you find one that gives
just a little

and then imagine it cut into perfect
half moons
resting in circles
on a bed of greens

the centerpiece
for the faces around
the table tonight

And there is the mound of corn
still smelling of
of rain and soil and sun
hauled in at dawn by a man in
overalls
whose hands touched every ear
every single ear.

And the store clerk hands you change
taking his time
looking you in the eyes
saying Thanks
since its
the only word
he knows.