THE FARMERS’ MARKET JUNKET

I get me to
the farmers market. . .

even when my oomph
runs somewhat low,
the market tends to spark it. . .

So I go,
because I know
I’m gonna like it,

whether as a pre-thought junket,
or a wait-see choice
to on-a-lark it. . .

so many vendors,
stands full strewed
with plenty kinds
of bright and cheerful food,
so fresh
you’d almost think
to eat it best,
you’d have to drink it.

So,
rain or sun
I know
+++++the trip
+++++to mingle in the lively group
+++++of folks all there
+++++to sell or shop
+++++will end up so much fun,
+++++I strive to stick close to my plan
+++++and not to fret or wring my hands
+++++in efforts to rethink it. . .

+++++and,
+++++when the shopping round is done,
+++++I know I can sit down
+++++and put a piece
+++++of fresh-picked food
+++++into my mouth
+++++where a few pairs
+++++of my strong teeth
+++++will bite off a little bit,
+++++and some others
+++++on it mash and beat
+++++to slowly liquefy and shrink it,

+++++so that my tongue
+++++can do its thing
+++++with ease,
+++++to touch and push
+++++that vital, broke-to-liquid thing
+++++and down my throat to slink it.­­

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