Vine Street Market
        --for Laurie

Any pole beans today, the market hawker
asks, we hesitate by his booth, he lifts
a pregnancy of seeds, sifts them slowly
through his fingers back into the bushel,
his practiced art seduces two more dollars
from me, my daughter and I walk around
three times, she searching for the perfect
last tomato of the season, rejects Madison
and Casey Counties in favor of sweet
red ones from Garrard, how can I say
they are sweet, you just know, fondling them,
it’s October, the many colors of corn,
squash, pumpkins, gourds twisted into curves
of computer art, she comes from E’town
twice a month, swears they have no fresh
markets, stares at produce in backs of pickups,
points out those smuggled from distant
lands, which red potatoes would you pick,
she asks, having already seen the chosen ones,
one more time around, she pleads, delaying
the moment of departure, her mother gone
four months now.