The Public Market

The Public Market

Blue all ‘round. Wandering. The cobblestone
tricks my feet. I’m hungry in these indecision days.

At work, the fire dwindled, then was gone.
Black boys sing Under the Boardwalk to tourists.

I fish against currents of silver, red, green and gold.
A hand on the cell, an urge to call home, but I can’t.

The gum wall’s sticky textured DNA smells of apples
Wafting down from Yakima, down the steep alleyway.

Below the viaduct’s raspy age, water dripping from
Molded concrete like blessings baptizing newborns.

Now across Western’s descending steps to the rickety
Market’s underbelly into silence’s solemn gratitude.

And later, crossing open water, the bridge dissects
two bright bowls – The Mountain behind in green.

The Sound, blue this day crowned by jagged Olympics,
White-tipped like so many full sails, but I look back.

The Public Market teems with people swimming against
Each other rather than all forward as bells toll for America.


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