at the bazaar

I trot out my wares before you, Lord,
these bruised and overripe fruits,
these melons picked late from the vine.
See how I angle them to the sun for the most
precocious sheen? Will you then choose one
for a dollar of condolence, Lord — three for a mercy
and a few loose coins. And if so, forgive that I cannot
make change, as no purchase has ever been
made of neglect. And if not, move on
to the saffron and silk, the nutmeg and teas,
perhaps a carpet or two may serve a tourist
well. Perhaps some tamarind chew or a pair
of orphan’s shoes. There is a man with a mouth
like stonehenge serving goat down there in the steam,
down there, beyond the three-penny flags
and candles, beyond the lady with bells, beyond
the ribbons, the shame and the beads.

Image: Dibakar Roy on Unsplash

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