the fish man

the man behind
the fish counter
has soft blue eyes.
he's neither tanned
nor pale
but ruddy. washed
over, and sun dried,
the salt in his veins,
as if he's been
out to sea for
years. he knows
his fish. you see
him reach and
grab for the one
you select, still
and stiff on the cracked
ice below
the flourescent
lights. he weighs
and wraps the fish
with ease. how long
have you been at this
you ask, making small
conversation.
just a week he says,
i used to be in
the produce section
for years.
i miss the apples,
he says wistfuly.
i really do. will there
be anything else?