Sunday Market

Sunday Market short poem

Photo by jontintinjordan

There’s a pile of wounded umbrellas
overlapping in the derelict doorway,
sure to be some kind of slumbering gorilla
back there, grinding its gray knuckles
into the tiles and broken glass.
Hundreds of people walking by on market day,
bands of children playing tag and teens
smoking and taking pictures of every graffiti
slur and all of them carefully ignoring
the smoke and steam from behind the barrier.
Umbrellas like palsied hands are common
practically floating atop plugged storm drains,
clattering after fast food wrappers during
windstorms, tourists discard them like tissues,
coming to see the sights of Seattle
but not the scars, the five hundred dollar
tattoos that didn’t turn out quite right,
heroin-sick musicians who never learned
how to tune a guitar, computer coders
who only learned to fake it long enough
to collect another quarter of unemployment,
they buy a glossy new umbrella, unlimber
an umber parasol, step out from beneath
their hotel’s cornice to be assaulted
by the western wind, sprung ribs and ripped
stitches, another building block of barricade
another gorilla sleeping on a cardboard
bed, his spine kinked by fists of handles
and telescoping aluminum shafts, sharp
spreaders prickling his hide in urban acupuncture
keeping him just barely asleep while
the consumers riot outside his nylon mausoleum.

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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