It's Still Life

Borough Market, 15:47

She stands all edge
against the London damp—
layers, scarf,
a green apron snapping
in sponge-wet wind.

Her hands, in fingerless gloves,
move like blessings
over wheels of gold.

Winter’s bite
settles into my own bones;
it gnaws at seller and buyer alike.
Cold makes no distinction.
Empathy is born there:
not pity from warmth,
but the fact of the same wind.

I buy a small, dear wedge,
for soup’s steam,
for her chapped palms,
for the hour of warmth
it might purchase
at day’s bitter end.

When the coins are gone,
I walk away
carrying more than cheese—
its weight a quiet pact
against the cold:
a reminder that my plenty,
for a moment,
was someone’s shelter.

Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.