Sunday Rhythm

If you listen closely,

On hot Sunday afternoons

You can hear the orchestra that plays

In busy flea markets.

You can hear the bustling of

Men catching up,

Boisterously yelling “I’m just trynna get like you” as their hands clap in noisy solidarity.

If you pay attention,

You can hear the sounds of vendors bartering.

And women sucking their teeth. 

And children laughing. 

And babies crying. 

Brown bodies bronzed from the sun

Weave in and out of themselves,

Always in rhythm,

Never without. 

Agile fingers crack the backs of blue crabs while mouths softly suck tender meat from their shell,

Savoring their gentle sweetness. 

If you’re present,

Senses ablaze,

You can see strawberry tongues lick 

The remnants of mango juice from their lips.

If you care enough,

You can see magic dripping 

Amongst the stores of

“That’s too tight” dresses and

“How strong is this” hair glue.

You can see it seeping through the stalls of

Meticulously whipped shea butter

And delicately painted artwork, 

Fueling buyers and sellers alike. 

If you are still,

Concentrated,

You can feel this magic in 

the soles of your feet as you’re walking.