hot afternoon in late august
or sometimes in early
October in Berkeley
the trees are few
the heat radiates up
off the asphalt in ripples
like long grass on an africkan
savannah far away in my memory
the drummers drum
some ancient melody
scribed in their blood
by ancient rhythm older than
the city they drum in
some in the raiment of their ancestors
others dress in the robes of their new tribes
we come to see and be seen
we come to buy and to sell
come to haggle and present the
old along side the new
the worthless and the priceless
side by side like some ancient market
in some other time
sometimes dancers dance
or poets recite and we are in
congo square far away
laying down burdens
rearranging rhythms
and reaching for something
living just under our surfaces
we circle seeing what we have seen before
paying attention or ignoring as our needs dictate
we eat platters of fruit
and sample scented oil
pay too little
pay too much
barter and trade
recreate worth
continue tradition
create our own legend
on long sunday afternoons
in earliest october
or sometimes late august at
the berkeley flea
Poem from: The BlackStar Liner Anthology by A. Nzinga
Found Images of Berkley Flea Market