MARKETS AREN'T

A MAN IN THE MARKETPLACE.

Markets aren’t what
They were; he reflects
Walking with difficulty

Between stalls of the
Marketplace, the smell
Of fruit in the air, the pain

In his legs complaining.
You’ve got to eat your
Greens, Mother’d say,

Don’t leave the parsnips
On the side of the plate.
He can hear her now,

Her voice carrying down
The table like a war cry,
Her finger jabbing into

The space just before his
Boyhood face. You think
Your father works to provide

Food for you to waste? Huh?
You think others out there
In the world wouldn’t fall

Over themselves for your
Vegetables? He stops and
Looks around at the market

Stalls, at the produce piled
High and so much of it.
He remembers his father

Sitting quietly eating in
Silence like some chilled
Contemplative monk, letting

His wife’s words buzz like
Angry bees about his head,
Maybe thinking of his workplace,

The day’s labour, the jokes he’d
Heard or just wondering how
He managed, across a whole

Ocean of girls, to select this
One as a wife and what it was
He once saw to take the bait.

He’ll never know what his
Father thought in his silent
Moods or in his dull and

Disinterested gaze. He leaves
The market place, having bought
Nothing, just a look around in

Silence, taking in without any
Purchase, unlike his father who
Bought the whole package: of

Miserable marriage, kids and
Poverty staring him in the face.

Author's Note

PHOTO BY ARLEEN HODGE..

Reviews

[Tim]

Excellent poem terry. I'm giving it 100