To best keep it out of my falling-apart plastic loafers, I hop over the sudsy water being pushed out of a neighboring apartment building. My eyes follow the soapy bubbles to the gutter, where they join and carry tiny balls of styrofoam. On dry land, I step around the offending packaging lying mostly whole. We don’t buy fish here.
Arriving at my destination, my fruit stall and adjacent bread-goods stall, I collect a lovely assortment of fresh apricots, a ruby grapefruit, and bananas from Ecuador, as well as two pain au chocolat from the perfect little pile. Bees buzz around the glazed almond croissants.
A neighborhood cat is standing guard at our corner. He is bone-thin and so dirty, but at least he has all his fur. A sibling of his stalks by, similarly dirty and thin. This city is hard on animals, animal lovers.
There once was a gal in Rabat,
A chocolaty pastry she got.
She’ll get one tomorrow,
To lessen her sorrow –
The croissants are the only high spot.