market day one, it is twice a week,
thursday and saturday, much
the same each day, books
for a donation, queue for the butcher.
waiting, eye the faggots, ham and oxtail,
admire pressed tongue, taste the salt on butter.
all addressed with green stuff
for decoration. the bread lady
will let you hold her goose eggs,
feel the weight of them, stroke the shell.
you do not need to buy them, you can
carress them nicely.
they are soft when born, soft as babies are.
above all stands the wooden man, scrubbed clean
with springy hair and wearing arms that hang
below the sleeve.
he talked to a lady from london,