Blues

Into the market square
Brushing along corners
Heady smells foreign
The shattering of red bricks
Imprinted a year
I do not know

The twitch of my nose
Cock of my head
Gathering senses in a good basket
But tumbles out
Bruised fruit

With each step
I am weighed down
Laid down
Low down
Dirtied like the tenants
From shoddy keeps

The list of demands
Longer
The tired in my eyes runs fast away
From stronger

Hoping he’s the wholesome southern boy
You’d want to bring home to your Momma
He returns
Hound dawg eyed
Shoving nickels into my hand

Sewed into the hem of my cotton skirt