The cobblestones crunch in the market
Leather hands shaking leather hands
I advance on a shrimp vendor’s table
Thousands of tiny gray crustaceans
Swimming in murky water
They cannot see
The blind Thai slave who farms them
Who sleeps in a cage
Whose skin is bubbling from the sun
I move on
I count the seeds in a strawberry
This one was picked by a man with a family
Waiting for him
Across the border
If the last letter reached its intended
I would rather starve
Than consume these bitter shattered hopes
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