Araber

Here comes the araber across the cobblestones,
slow as a rolled coin.
Here comes his horse, his cart, his bellowing cry:
Blueberries!
Strawberries!
Sweet persimmons!
His wagon is laden with fruits round and ripe.
His call is laden with sung notes stretched:
Bluuuue BERries!
Strawwww BERries! 
Plumsandblack BERRIES! 
The sky is pale blue, the few clouds puffy white.
Delicious ORRRanges!
The day is hot. His horse is stoic. 
I wonder if I have a nickel
or a dime?

There is no araber, nor cobblestones either.
His horse and his wagon 
gone to dust and kindling.
I hold a plastic tub wrapped with cellophane in my palm.
Ed Sheeran leaks from a speaker somewhere in the ceiling,
bleating about being in love with some girl's body.

"Hey...what's wrong?"
My shopping companion gives me a friendly little bump.
I tell her:
"Strawberries...
blueberries.... 
plums and black...berries."
She is used to me, and kind.
When we leave, the sky is pale blue, 
the few clouds puffy white,
the back wheel of our basket spinning and clattering 
all the way to the car.
______

for this.