Closing Down the Market

I want to wear the wares of people

who made them with their hands
Give the paper money I earn a shape,

a new color, a reason

made meaningful by an exchange of

hand to soiled hand. 

When the market closes, the tents

at half mast, metal poles

collapsed for packing, old suitcases,

colored bins of plastic, copper

earrings, bruised sweet apples, folded

tapestries with rough

patterns asleep, prints finger-browsed

sorted and left behind in a

Sunday hunger satisfied only

when your design is her desire.

For him to survive it must be

paid for, not merely

admired.