A Market in Whitechapel

As I start my work
they finish theirs

Walking down the market aisle
I see them disassemble
Pulling pipe from pipe
The now-collapsed skeleton of stands
glinting in the morning sun

or whatever is left to glint
Whatever steel is left unblemished
from years of rust

They will return, as I will
When the sun is overhead
When the noontime heat warms the pavement
awakening the smell of urine
from the stones beneath our feet

Cherries, headscarves, apples, sandals, mobiles
all stacked in pyramids, slightly overflowing
A man selling corn in a cup
branded as a healthy snack