CuppaGemma

Nectarines always seemed in season
tickling in you intensely, c’mon c’mon
little fruit shop made you want everything
escarole, tomatoes, soft plums, zucchini to fry
eggplants saying, “Me too”, and sweet peppers

The family pushed your bundle
across the gray brown counter
worn from wooden slat pullers-
C shaped things like skee ball markers
which the girls used to avoid reaching all day

Ringing you up on the register
with little round numbers balanced
on metal keys sticking up like
the old man’s grin as he tap typed
spinning white on black numbers

Then dash quick from the smell
of ice with fish, “Scallops?”
“Filet. Pound and a half today.”
heavy wax paper, cold parcels
black crayon, white tile everywhere wet

Next the butcher, proud owner
of a waist like a Buick but
hidden behind his hanging cheeses,
pushing their scent against
careless mounds of fresh sawdust

Bakery last, cheese cake, maybe
butter cookies, sometimes. But
always timed the walk to meet
the line for fresh braided semolina
or 3 plain long loaves for $1

‘Cept now the pizza’s just out
so stop for a slice, say hello,
get some zeppole intended for later
dipping fingers in powdered sugar,
olive oil before we ripped into the dough