I wade through the market
That is a stagnant lake.
Small Kiosks of shoes and boot-legged DVD's
Float like algae on the water's surface.
I swim slowly, careful not to touch
The dead birds that float in my path.
A frozen covey, ruffled in flight,
Their feathers pass beneath me
Attached to walkers, groomed pets, bruised canteloupe.
They feverishly amble in and out of my way.
The water of the market clings like web
And every time their unwashed jackets touch me
I'm sure that I will drown.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment