I'm over by the crates of tomatoes when it starts.
"It's no good!" he roars,
this big man, Italian in his rage, mafioso and
picky about his vegetables.
I'm close enough, I can see how his spit hits the air.
People stop and stare, and suddenly
the green pepper roars as he crushes it.
No, that was the pistol he drew
that roared like it was being crushed in the Sicilian fist,
a hunk of metal
tipped with angry fire.
People scream, fall, duck, run.
Their feet making a quiet thumping roar.
I drop behind the crates of vegetables,
The smell of burnt onions singeing my ears,
because I'm reaching for my Colt .45 or something,
holstered in surprisingly sweet leather, and it
tastes like a sweetly roasted pepper, crushed.
He's roaring now, again, again, fist roaring,
groceries flying. I wonder
if it's a hit, or just weirdness expanding,
substituting violence for the day's normal trade and barter.
My wallet exploded when I dove for the ground,
dollar bills, or are they lira?
now scattered around me in the dirt like great green leaves of capitalist cabbage.
Canteloupes bounce, explode. The market is
falling around my ears as I
try to find the roaring man and his angry green pepper.
But it's too cloudy, and I can't see. But somehow he can because suddenly
bullets explode wood splinters near too near me too near my head.
Crushed green peppers roll to an uneven stop beside me on the dirty earth.
I decide to play dead...
Look at the pepper on the ground, squished and angry.