On the way back from the (maybe
metaphoric) market, your arms
are monkey-long, your shoulders
pulled to the ground by laden bags
(the endless recycling of matter),
and the street just a little too
long on this winter afternoon,
half-sinking into its shadow.
Maybe you're walking and thinking
of other market days (always
abreast with the morning sun)
when others gladly pulled your weight,
or maybe you are just dodging
the sidewalk traps of slushy snow
(that right boot has been capricious),
under the weak glow of street light.
But then you happen to look up,
and George -- his face a question mark --
in white overalls, through the glass
lifts two thumbs above the apples,
waiting for an answer, and not
maybe but certainly your smile
lets it all go, waves it away,
and buries it under the snow.
George says the rubber band keeps his sleeve from getting too dirty.
