I go to the shopping centre
market, bazaar we call it in India
as the man wants to get rid of his vegetables.
It is 8.30 pm.
Perhaps he has to go to his
home, in a nearby village.
Perhaps not. I look at them, their green, their freshness
ripeness sprouts somewhere.
I don’t buy. I prefer those
arid ones at home, where
the refrigerator shrivels them up into scattered bits
of raw meat.
