Kisad

We’d walk down the hill and pass
the orchid-sellers, the hawkers
of small, brightly colored birds
caught in traps deep in the mountains.
At the corner of Chanum, the dentist’s
shiny polished Chevy Del Ray parked
in his driveway. In the market,
the slime of fish guts underfoot
and the vivid green of seaweed
in sellers’ baskets. Pressing
deeper in, past the stalls displaying
tiers of sausages and the dry goods
section, eventually we’d come upon
the currency changers. We bought
bars of Hershey’s chocolate there,
or small expensive cans of Spam
and potato chips. Coming back
we took our time, circling the man-
made lake and the rowboats lazy
on its surface— this world
small as the hollow of a teacup,
the rare sound of a chopper overhead.
In every yard at dusk, the brittle
tines of brooms sweeping over stones.

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