|Jan/Feb 2006 Poetry|
At Harry's Market
The darkest colors call. The eggplants polished, slippery, erect.
Eyes travel: a mound of vegetables disguised as purple foothills.
The shoppers touch, squeeze, and thump: the rounded horns
Of baby rhinos, the dark breasts of ancient queens.
Hands and fingers reach, they sometimes dig. They poke and poke.
Some expect wetness, others not sure. A few stand at a distance,
Listening, observing. As sound dresses the sky, the shoppers move on.
Down the aisle past the garlic and shallots, the asparagus ready for war.