by Mary TallMountain
Our plaza is sanctuary
for sunning, eating, and smoking
waiting to go up to Social Security
words to each other tripping on our tongues
looking curiously at pigeons.
A homeless man plans a life
around sneakers, clothes
and a bedroll
He buys a bunch of stringbeans for a quarter
and lives on it till next Wednesday.
People are circling into families
Onions and greens from the Farmers Market
The good workers of the soil display their wares
The housewives and elderly men
stand in line to get their ingredients weighed
Soup would be hotfood for their families.
City fathers would lift off our market
from the bricks of the plaza
for the sake of ego
that puts down plaques here
Where will the vegetable sellers find refuge?
Where can we buy vegetables still smelling of earth?
Last updated May 20, 2019