Yesterday was Saturday. I look the train to the Union Square farmers market.
Kale from the organic tent with the swarthy clerk whose smile is a million stars passing in an instant.
Mushrooms. Rung up by a mere boy, about 10, who carefully weighs them on a scale (.25 pounds), looks at the price ($5 per pound), moves his lips as if counting in his breath, and cautiously charges me $1.25.
Garlic from a hanging basket and a smiley woman explaining they aren’t young, just small.
And two quarts of goats milk from the pretzel vendor watching Rose’s booth while she is “on lunch.”
Back to Bushwick. I have a package waiting at the post office; my favorite clerk looks very tired. Examine the offerings at the local farmer’s market, which are slim. Someone is selling tea from these astonishing red flowers; I am trying to admire the color while she is going on about flavonoids and vitamin C.
Street harassed by men on the first corner, then a whole gang of construction workers, and lastly two large leering men. The consuming sense of panic and dread does not wear off, really, until dusk.