The Poet at Market

Under tents of mottled canvas, aromas rise,  

basil mingles with fresh bread and chill air.  

His table bears the weight of thin words,  

small sewn spines breathing soft ambitions.  

Fingers smudge pages folded by hand,  

thumbs brush ink's imperfect edges,  

a voice offers a verse for a coin,  

though most glance away, uninterested.  

Children laugh nearby; their chaos hums,  

sweet, careless energy circling sunlit stalls,  

while here, he trades himself in increments,  

each title whispered as a prayer of belief.  

Beyond the crates of apples and honey,  

seedlings and oregano sprigs tied with twine,  

he watches their shadows, fleeting, depart,  

then smooths the cloth and waits again.