I go in the afternoon, before the hordes set in and children are let out from school. Your Fairway, my speedway, basket in hand, I dash past soft, yielding cheese;/crisp baguettes and spears of tender green, fast as I can.
Racing through the crowded market, I avoid the stew of white-haired ladies with heavily laden carts/ and elbows, pointy and sharp as darts.
But the gleam of an apple catches my eye, I reach over a lady who appears none too spry. First the thud,/ then the splat, our collision sends bright orbs to the floor so flat.»
“Know you what happened to Eve,” she snorts. I have no words,/ no witty retort. She glowers and quickly exits the scene.
I cower in the company of nuts, seeds,/ and berries once green.
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