Yes, I still remember how the old market was laid out:
fruit, rice and dried fish, the row of coffee vendors,
the vegetable sellers; and beyond, the butchers
and the fishmongers. At the end of narrow corridors
slick with scales and fish guts, the women who packed
salt expertly into paper cones— such tiny fossils
of minerals and tears. And the boys that pulled
wobbly wooden carts filled with mountain produce
called out warnings up and down the hilly streets.
Most everyone I used to know has gone ahead—
gone on to gold, to gated subdivisions, early
retirement, presumably to everything they ever
wanted. And under this half-biscuit of a moon,
I stand, head tilted, still listening for the slow
stutter of crickets calling from the garden.
In response to Via Negativa: Fall.