City market sprawls
   Under covered roofs --
 Blocks and blocks
   With no outside, and yet
   Not really inside either.
 Miles of food:
   Raw, cooked, and 
   -- Sometimes -- living,
      Squirming in buckets 
      Or trying to flip to freedom.

In the witching hour,
   With blue tarps up
      And food stowed
      And only streetlamps lit,
 A drunk stumbles through,
    Crushing an overripe
    Peach underfoot.