By Shem Onderi
There are no rules in this market.
People trade in everything,
while noise and movement
fill every corner.
The eateries are many,
drawing crowds of hungry patrons,
yet relief centres are few, if any.
People empty themselves wherever they can.
Pity the owners of nearby farms and hedges.
Each trader guards their goods fiercely,
hoping to raise enough capital
to buy what they themselves lack.
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Those who arrive with money
expect abundance.
At dawn, the government taxman rises
to levy goods and earnings.
Yet not every coin is receipted,
for the collector too must eat
and travel from where he worketh.
Above him, his seniors wait
for bundles from the collection
before the remainder reaches
the consolidated account.
There are hardly any gates
to this market—
entry and exit lie open to all.
Some earn by calling out to customers.
The market boys survive by offloading goods.
Even the toilet attendant, if one exists,
makes a living from the calls of nature.
Traders and buyers
speak endlessly about everything
yet nothing of substance.
Gossip drowns meaningful conversation.
And in the end,
the open-air market
belongs to no one.
