Your long legs that whisk you away

With each step imperious leagues

Would set any little girl adrift, but I

Was busy keeping pious pace.

A scuttling girl shadowing her father’s stroll

We approach the marketplace

A weeklong of work, but now you’re here with me

Hemmed in by the throng and din.

My canary umbrella is another snag

Dangling more like sack than shed

In my frail fingers it frolics from side to side

A funny little thing under glaring rays.

When your eyes turn back, and they always do,

I am falling behind, they seem to state.

So I strike the ground and I spite my feet

A wager of your approval against self-hate.

I maneuver through the towering swarm

Of buyers, just to sight

The back of your grey shirt, it’s my Sunday game

When I win, you’re by my side.

Holding on to your rugged pants then I hope

For you to look down, see I’m here

Lowering your gaze you check the firmness of fruits

While my eyes repeat, look I’m here.

The objects on display are charming all

Stacks of crayons, green and red

Fishes sheathed in silver perfect for a princess crown

At my father’s behest, they swing on seesaw scales.

I follow him then to the lanes where they sell goat meat

Standing by the bloody sludge, I wait

He discerns the good ones from the bad

To me, they all seem dead.

At last with bags bursting at the seams

He walks straight back, I wobble beside

At last he retires to the sofa

And he sees me, I close my eyes.