Market

Frayed black binbags
Striped with brown electrical tape
Hood the edges of the banner-like sign
Announcing the market.

Cautious faces wait-
One sits, distracted, on an upturned crate
Middle-aged and texting,
He sells urns and other death goods.
Another, his stall decked in Gingham
Attempts to sell Gorgonzola and
Rape-seed oil to middle class clientele.
Cheap meat fat stink hangs heavily-
An urban redolence.
A creative entrepreneur sells hooded onesies
As outdoor, all-purpose urbanwear
And bumps Old-Skool hip-hop-
DON’T- DON’T- DON’T BELIEVE THE HYPE

On the windowsill of a tired-looking flat
Above and set back from the market,
A greasy pigeon cleans himself.

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