Street Market - by
Here, under the awning of cotton,
/ Tomatoes are heaped in a flare
/ Of glossy red beauty, and rotten
/ Sick-sweet smells of fruit fill…
Here, under the awning of cotton,
/ Tomatoes are heaped in a flare
/ Of glossy red beauty, and rotten
/ Sick-sweet smells of fruit fill…
And this was known as the milk room,
/ the coldest room in the cool house.
/ There, on a paint-stained table,
/ Jugs and bowls…
Your custom often
/ when the house was still
/
/ to brew milky coffee
/ and reminisce.
/
/ Child care experts would have frowned
/ on my late hours,
/
/ The bitter…
I am a cow named Poetry,
/ I give a little milk,
/ usually 2.5% fat,
/ sometimes I manage
/ to squeeze out 3%,
/ I’m proud…