by Robert Beveridge
I lit a smoke, leaned
against the wall. Customers
would come, I knew,
they always did. Secondhand
vegetables are a specialty
market, but a popular one.
The demand for used Brussels
sprouts is on the rise. The wane
in popularity of the gently-read
habanero is cyclical; these things
come back into fashion, as sure
as people will always shell out
for onion in uniform cubes.
The old joke about half a worm
masks an underculture the world
would be shocked about, were it
made public. They salivate
for a perfect ABC parsnip,
will pay a premium
for the perfect leek,
What the greengrocer calls
“discolored”, that perfect pale
yellow tint, we can’t keep
our palsied fingers away from.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.