These open-air markets-

if one travelled tip jar 

to tip jar they’d be Nellie Bly

 

around the world in seventy-two days, 

but Rumi disagrees: “if one wants money, 

they’d be bought and sold!”

 

-Helen’s flowers, Mary Golds, 

Sweet Williams, raised flower beds 

of syrupy perfume and baby powder

 

little children rooted firmly 

to Mother Earth, auntie Bee

and Gramma Butterfly rocking the babes

 

in their black soil bassinets

chubby and soft-skulled,

arrayed in claustrophobic skyline

 

their oil-paint rooftops:

a little Amsterdam of seedlings

only reading their names

 

-Bleeding Hearts, Morning Glories,

Foxgloves- and I’m hearing the jingle 

of ice cream, the whispery breeze 

of a thunderstorm

 

in heat-maddened summer, crackle

of electricity, raindrops on half-baked cement, 

and I’m thinking of

 

my mother’s hat, and following the 

splintered wood of the boardwalk, 

I’m wanting not this dress but the swish

 

and thrill of a gown. Nearby

the Delaware Deli man brought out 

latticed chairs, a table for two, 

olive oil and bread

 

craving the buttery heaven 

of his delicacies, and I want 

not tiramisu, but his display

 

I want to wear it, place it atop my head, 

wide brimmed and straw woven

black ribbon tumbling forth

 

I want to snatch up the city

and place it as my crown,

skyscrapers my jewels.

 

Watch as I pluck vineyards

from rolling California Hills,

twist and tuck each grape stem

 

into my hair, roll wine bottles

curl by curl.

Look! snatching the church 

 

spire, my spine bone-straight,

skyscraper tall, shadows trace the 

curve of my collarbone.

 

Gabled rooftops are my

pleated skirt, a gargoyle 

perched on my finger

 

Watch out Nellie Bly-

I am not just a world circumnavigator

I am the world, personified.