Yell Fuck at Farmer’s Market
Twice now, it is windy
A woman selling teabags
has run from her stand
to collect its contents
She does a thing that most
of my great loves have done –
yells FUCK
then asks me to wait
So I’m waiting
The paper squares floating
are like copies
of the same tiny letter
I wonder if the word Great
has ever preceded Love
in my case
If Love as moving expanse
is measured in paces
or if it is more like
water being
held inside a room
I guess it doesn’t matter
A family selling peaches
has abandoned their post
to help the woman with her tea
Their jars instead hold
suspended organs, misshapen
toads in formaldehyde
I imagine even the good stuff away
Like how being alive
is more like
selling the thing you’ve made
until it’s a good life
unedit 
I love this. Not very commentary but true.
Thank you!
This poem is the reason I don’t come to your blog very often . . . it’s so fucking good that I stare at my own keyboard like a centipede considering how to run, that thing.
I’ve always imagined that most of my audience are centipedes. Thanks 🙂 This comment makes my day, lots of days.
i really like your work…poetry…all of the above, and below.
Thanks. I like yours too.
word.
Again, you say the perfect thing which pulls it all together right at the end. What a perfect finish.
cha-ching. 😉