The Wicker Man

"Good evening, ma'am!"
"Evening, Mami!"
I hear the wicker man
Calling out up the street.
I can't see him and yet I know
Upon his face there is a smile.

Dark gums, white teeth,
And burnt-bronze skin.
"I bring some'a mi crafts;
Basket, Hamper ahn so."
"I mek them all miself, yuh sih"
"I bring them all this way come sell."

Upon his back
Straw items sit,
Each one as light as air.
And yet his back is bent
Not from the earthy weavings' weight,
But more the miles that he has come.

Her nose up-turned,
Face fixed in scowl,
She steps out with blind eyes.
She does not see the scars.
She does not see the calloused hands,
Or tired legs, Or hungry eyes.

There's no answer,
No words offered,
Just some grudging glances
And a shake of her head.
And wicker-man is sent away
To sell his goods at some new door.

Dust on his feet,
Pockets empty,
He wipes his sweat away,
Ignores his tired limbs
And dons his smile as he moves on
To try and sell his wares again.

Andre Marsden is an aspiring poetry and fiction writer currently living in Belmopan, Belize. You can find more of his work at


Charlotte said...

You weave a beautiful story of art, strenth and perseverance with these words. It reminds me of our Mr.Okra who sells fruits and vegetables in the streets of our Bywater and Marigny neighborhoods. Selling wares in the streets, door to door and street to street is becoming a lost art in this country, I'm afraid.

Anonymous said...

heartbreaking. really good. thanks.

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