Moore Street, Saturday
I’m looking for some overripe bananas
Have you any black bananas?
The stall drew me to its aging bounty
She lights up
Ah yes. For the banana loaf, is it?
Nothing gets past me, love
I know all about the banana loaf
She motions towards behind the tarp
And lifts a lid of upturned crate
Off of another crate
A dozen flies rise out
Her hand goes in
And comes up with a dozen ancient digits
How’s that for black bananas?
One euro, she screws them into a bag
(The same price as her good bananas)
One euro? For those rotten things?
She blinks, and grins
They’re not rotten to you, my dear