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Sloshed to their slender throats
Sloshed to their slender throats in deep buckets, the forced narcissi bud, the fluted taxi-yellow of their klaxons flagging traffic to standstill.
Who has eyes for new potatoes, or the boy swooping them, river-smoothed rock, into his full-grown hands? Between customers, he preens in a pocket mirror
only to be damped by his father, a river god misting bouquets of broccoli, radish corsages and parsley boutonnieres. Wielding a knife whose appetite
has whetted the blade to a slice of itself, the boy shaves a cauliflower. Flesh of firm unblemished apples, sleek muscled body of water—
some think to court him over cucumbers and tomatoes, to hang in echo on the little he mutters to hurry them out of his shadow, a crate of trimmings balanced on his ripe shoulder—
the limp, the bruised and gone-to-mold destined to grace an altar roughed of empty boxes, beauty exacting tribute where it may, left to exalt itself in rank decline.
A brace of daffodils quivering in his back pocket, he hoses the sidewalk’s dry bed free of carrot stub and lost cabbage leaf, rude toy ferry the gutter swirls on its way.
Soaked to their thin necks in large buckets, the forced daffodils bloom, the bright yellow of their horns stopping traffic completely.
Who notices new potatoes, or the boy catching them, smooth like river stones, into his grown-up hands? While waiting on customers, he admires himself in a small mirror
only to be silenced by his father, a river god sprinkling bouquets of broccoli, radish flowers and parsley pins. Holding a knife that is sharp
has sharpened the blade to a thin edge, the boy slices a cauliflower. The flesh of perfect apples, a sleek, strong body of water—
some try to win him over with cucumbers and tomatoes, to linger on the little he whispers to push them away from his shadow, a box of scraps resting on his heavy shoulder—
the wilted, the bruised, and the spoiled meant to decorate a rough altar of empty crates, beauty demanding tribute wherever it can, left to celebrate itself in decay.
A bunch of daffodils shaking in his back pocket, he washes the dry sidewalk of carrot ends and lost cabbage leaves, a rough toy carried by the gutter swirling away.