A market is nothing without people.
This one is full. I weave my way, bags
in hand, smile at the girl taking pictures
with her Dad, nod to the lady I avoid,
a furtive smile my reward. Swing round past
another doddering old fool, out into an
atmosphere charged with a city horizon
divided into shadow and brilliant stripes
of balconies, windows, roofs burnished caramel,
the sky a panoply of grape, squid ink, wine,
that blend into deepest Burgundy. Lit coals
rise against pale blue sky that this moment
sings the eternal.
                    I step on the gas, merge
with the beat of traffic, roll down the window
and taste the evening as I drive into it,
not away from it. The anticipation of going home
is cause for acceleration; I cannot wait to dance
with my wife in celebration (though I know
that’s only fantasy).
                    I burst through the door,
I kiss her. “You can’t believe what I have seen.”
“It’s Spring,” she says, and kisses me again.