Poem: Broadway Flea Market

Broadway Flea Market

If you wake up early enough,
and why not on a perfect spring day in May,
you can watch the vendors
construct their airy stalls
like kids playing with Tinker Toys
fitting the plastic piping together
quickly and perfectly,
focused on the essential task at hand.

Soon the tables and pegboards are up
and the dizzying array of wares appear
as if by a magician’s sleight of hand:
jewelry, sunglasses, hats, t-shirts
scarves and shawls (the allure of pashmina!),
belts, wallets and handbags,
a smorgasbord of colorful merchandise
center, left and right,
two aisles for twelve blocks,
from Times Square to 57^th Street,
like a river flowing through a narrow canyon,
glints of warm sunlight
reflecting off myriad shiny surfaces
but still cool in the blue black shade.

Soon smoke signals arise at every corner
aromas drift through the stalls
and savory temptations beckon:
shish kabob and gyro, cheese steak and pizza
churros and burritos, sweet drinks and coffee.
Then, like time lapse photography
the street slowly fills with curious customers
a slow dance of stop and go
sidestep and pirouette
two directions in each aisle
a choreography of silent cooperation.
Sounds of sidewalk musicians – saxophone
guitar, steel drum – and a mixed chorus
of voices foreign and domestic
mingles exotically in the air above the crowd
a moving tapestry of humanity flowing just beneath.

It’s New York. It’s Broadway.
It’s good to be alive.