Saturday wakes to the scent
of burnt toast wafting through
rattling Venetian-blind palms as

the gonging mission bell cuts
my sleep-hazed mind, and
I cross Mercy Street watching

blacktop roses bowing to the
gentle breeze. I walk with
lopsided longing toward the kazoo

hum of the Farmer’s Market,
where a blind troubadour sporting
tattoos on her arms courts

seekers and idlers with her
church-bell voice, and a
farmer hawks Yukon gold potatoes

as if they were truly
treasure. Beyond these nuggets, past
the fruit waiting patiently as

people nibble nuts, savor honey,
bargain with vendors, the spicy
orange day beckons to me.