PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox
There are no surveillance bulbs in the market corridors. That job remains with the eyes of the vendors. Where cameras take in impersonal grainy images, sharp eyes recognize shifty movements and remember patterns.
I begin taking produce bins. My goal is to have ninety by the time the baby is born. We need shelter and I have a safe place to build it.
Vendors share with each other about missing bins. I get to eighty when they catch me.
Nowadays I lay on my jail bunk and weep, imagining Maya and our child huddling between dumpsters with the rats.
The title is taken from a poem by Langston Hughes.
Rochelle Wisoff Fields is the effervescent host of Friday Fictioneers.