End of Market Day

At five, the market is closing. Burdock roots, parsley, and rutabagas are poured back into the trucks. The antique dealer breaks down his tables. Light dappled, in winter parkas shoppers hunt for bargains: a teapot, or costume jewelry, a grab bag of rubbishy vegetables for stew. Now twilight, the farmer’s wife bundled in her tweed coat and pocket apron counts out her cash from a metal box, and nods to her grown-up son back from a tour in Iraq, as he waits in the station wagon with the country music turned way up, his prosthetic leg gunning the engine.