On Market Street
Rows of palmetto trees
taper off, converging into distance,
each one wrapped tight
with glittering shards of light.
On the street corner a man stands,
mallet poised over his xylophone,
performing for passing pedestrians.
In front of The Market sit women
flashing gap-toothed grins
from underneath wide-brimmed hats,
chattering in patchwork vernacular,
seductive eyes enticing tourists
to purchase a sweetgrass basket.
Each day the same, this ancient avenue
blossoms with the bustle of business.
The clip-clop of horses’ hooves mingles
with the rush and murmur of motors.
The mallets strike the metal keys
and the tourists stream past, cameras clicking.