the old men
in winter plaid
and grey
move slowly along
the brightly lit aisles,
alone,
the squeak of the carts
wheel
a mouse at their feet.
they stand at the cold
bins of fish
reaching in
to pick one package,
blood red or pink,
they study the words,
the price,
turn it over,
then back again.
they set it down
on the iron mesh
next to potatoes,
bread and wine,
a single apricot.
they toss their scarves
over their shoulders,
adjust their hats,
move on.
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