Collingswood Farmers Market, January
Ghosts lurk here. This empty stretch of asphalt
underneath where trains rush clatterscreech to
stop in pale gray winter light, where people
huddled under coats all scurry, find their
cars, and flinch from cold of seats and steering
wheels. It’s only been six months ago –
long tables heaped with orange and green and
red and purple – peppers lettuce basil
peaches corn tomatoes and cilantro –
outlined this place, and jostling in between
bare-armed and hot, an eager crowd of
shoppers and their dogs came hunting friends and fruit.
Come quickly, April, full of peas and rhubarb
Bring back our Saturdays beneath the trains.