Market Street

I want
to die for some
meaningless reason.

I want
to be walking home
from the market, carrying
only a dozen eggs
in a crinkly, half-transparent
plastic bag. And a nameless,
shady man, homeless
by choice, reaches out
from behind a brick's
shadow and stabs
me. Twenty-seven
times in the chest,
the back,
even a few to the groin.

He takes the eggs, a
third of which breaks
when the carton hits
the concrete like
quarreling spouses that
only wear their
rings at
reunions.
He leaves the
wallet, a matter of
principle.

And he dis
appears.

I didn't want
an omelette that
badly anyway.