I’m told there is a market,
A real one, where around noon,
They bring out platters of fresh salads,
Assortments of fruit, bowls of avocado sushi
And carrot casseroles, emerald broccoli compotes,
Sweet orange starbursts on plates of iced lettuce,
Dainty jade cucumber sandwiches, fit for royal fingers,
Ruby red cherry tomatoes in beds of ermine pasta,
And olives green in aspic, or set like rich onyx stones
Around bowls of candied almonds and pecans.

I am told that strains of exotic music play
As android patrons inside pretend to eat their fill,
To drink the finest vintage wines from crystal glasses
And nibble honey-glazed desserts of heavenly grace.
I am told they allow you to pass by this place
Which isn’t real – which cannot be real! –
As a reminder of our subjugation.

We can look but never touch,
And we can only dream of taste,
And a life we might have once embraced
As we move through our daily rounds
In this wasteland of a former Eden.

This street
Is lined with living trees.
Or so I’ve been told.