• the smell of onion bathed hot dogs lured me to the weekly farmer's market a street away from my paradise.
    its nomads selling convenient knick-knacks that locals must buy and soon leave on shelves to gather dust.
    its stupid but effective.
    at a corner nomads sell fresh seedless melons
    only, when u cut one open, there are seeds
    another corner has a wana be elvis lip singing heart break hotel
    another corner smells of century old coal train. there greasy food is cooked
    u can see half a dozen headless chickens dangling on a steak, cooking slowly.
    grim, but wicked
    on the empty street impatient teen nomads supervise the mini petting zoo and pony ride.
    at first glance u feel pity for the creatures. restrained for a life of asses on their backs.
    but, they are fat, fat with care and shining coats.
    there's no need for pity....
    at the end of the market u see nomads selling beautiful craft bracelets and necklaces.
    out of all the men here, u are the most gypsy.
    dark skined, long black curls that hang over ur neck and a traveler's cap tossed on top of it all
    ur shirt is an xxL but ur really a S. its all tucked into jeans that make ur legs look twice as small as mine's i can't stop staring at those thick brows, and long lashes.
    and coal eyes.
    each wrist has a leather bracelet and each ring finger holds a simple ring.
    how can i look at ur crafts when ur there,in front of me?
    ur something rare, uncommon
    a modern gypsy man.