Great Day for Berries, and a Poem

This morning we hiked downtown for the local farmers market.  Saturdays so far this season have been cloudy, cool, rainy, or all three, but not today. Today is clear and sunny, and promises to be warmer than the week was.

Our market is a relative newcomer, smaller than the one in neighboring city Beloit, and certainly not in the league of the venerable Madison markets.  But this one has the charm of being close enough to walk to, and I like seeing people I know, and getting tips on what's good.  Today a retired teacher friend sang the praises of a vender's organic beef, and early season cauliflower.

We were in search of fresh strawberries, cheese curds, fresh bread, and Kettle Corn. I wanted some strong coffee too, since ours at home tends to be on the weak side.  How did I get through my life so far without kettle corn?  The combination of salty and sweet is irresistible to me, and apparently to lots of others as well, based on how many bags I saw being carried around.

There were several vendors with strawberries, but we tend to favor the folks at Skelly's Market.  Today one of the ladies was there to show off a huge and weirdly shaped berry.  She took time to explain to a disappointed buyer that their berry pies from the farm are flying off the shelves so quickly that they didn't have enough to send to the downtown market.  We took home a pint of warm strawberries, and could smell the scent of all the way back to our house.

I found this poem on my Poetry Foundation app last night, and liked it well enough to share here. There is as much truth as poetry in these lines. You betcha.

Ode to the Midwest
By Kevin Young

The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
—Bob Dylan

I want to be doused
in cheese

& fried. I want
to wander

the aisles, my heart's
supermarket stocked high

as cholesterol. I want to die
wearing a sweatsuit—

I want to live
forever in a Christmas sweater,

a teddy bear nursing
off the front. I want to write

a check in the express lane.
I want to scrape

my driveway clean

myself, early, before
anyone's awake—

that'll put em to shame—
I want to see what the sun

sees before it tells
the snow to go. I want to be

the only black person I know.

I want to throw
out my back & not

complain about it.
I wanta drive

two blocks. Why walk—

I want love, n stuff—

I want to cut
my sutures myself.

I want to jog
down to the river

& make it my bed—

I want to walk
its muddy banks

& make me a withdrawal.

I tried jumping in,
found it frozen—

I'll go home, I guess,
to my rooms where the moon

changes & shines
like television.