the sky is dry-
dusty under roaring
sun; and the slap-slap-slap
of rope sole shoes on
mud-caked, hard-baked red
clay roads
is soft, but still
a metronome beating
your pace.

as you walk-walk-walk
through the habble-gabble
market sounds of
tuesday

yes, it is tuesday
three days wed.
a bubble-happy feeling --
floating.

gold for the lady mister?

oh, your wife?

then silver maybe.

giggly laughter erupting
from the long-
white oh-so-kissable
throat of the
lady-in-question as
the hawker,
skilfully,
snakes a silver rope
around it.

she turns to haggling
russet hair bobbing
-shining
the sun caught;
trapped in
it as she
shakes-shakes-nods

you lucky man, mister

your lovely wife

she hard bargainer.

you know.
you envy him the touch
of her slim-
smooth fingers as she
drops
coins into his palm.
her touch belongs
,now and always,
to you.