Market

White topped quick shade canopies
Folding tables and silk screened runners
Temples filled with knickknack shrines
Music and grilled meat waltz in the breeze
Drawing the aimless crowed inward
Proprietors sit forward on metal chairs
Or stand calling with a smile
Hoping eye contact will obligate passersby
And what is for sale but happiness
Joy in the craft and joy in the discovery
Seller and buyer exchange money
Evidence that it was real

-T. Weeks
(A response to “Yet, Yet, Ye Downcast Hours”)