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

yes, it is tuesday
three days wed.
a bubble-happy feeling --
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,
snakes a silver rope
around it.

she turns to haggling
russet hair bobbing
the sun caught;
trapped in
it as she
you lucky man, mister
your lovely wife
she hard bargainer.
you know.
you envy him the touch
of her slim-
smooth fingers as she
coins into his palm.
her touch belongs
,now and always,
to you.

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