Bricks

Misplaced Saturday mornings, 

out before anyone knows I'm awake.

I walk the eighteenth century bricks:

brick sidewalks, brick roads, brick houses,

to Eastern Market, a brick warehouse  

with stands outside made of wood and paint.

Whether it's been one week or months since I've

walked in, everyone greets me

like I'm an old friend; I don't know why.

They speak foreign languages -

communication  condensed to hanging sausage

gladiolas, violets, beans, apples and an extra

orange.

Wandering mind as much as roaming feet

I am a different person there, transported.

If I have seven dollars for the week, I'll spend

four, walk without worry, like the gentry,

with their dogs on leashes.

The morning turns ten o'clock, sun rays

through the trees, warming my face.

I walk home,brick steps, door two hundred

years old, my two room flat,

fireplaces filled with bricks -

capital facade. 

My dazed morning a freedom, not a chore ... 

here I walk by chance of century, 

and my own making...

seven dollars to spend.

There isn't much I should wish, at least,

not for me.