Junkyard Image #1 (Week Four)

In Florence there's an open-air market. And we market ourselves into real leather jackets, jewelry--the bins of scarves. The smell of bodies continually sticks in every area of air. I want to say I've a phobia but that's too American--so I worry the tag of a sweatshirt for it's price. No one is sure where the wind comes from here. Or the vendors. They come out of the wood-work, out of the stacks and racks of their fabrics. One man tells me of a magic belt, that it lives forever. I don't understand his demonstration. Just like I don't understand the black man lying, face down, on cement. Arms bent behind his back. He looks up at me, confused. And I leave him there--because I'm more afraid of the way the vendor's knee presses into his lower back, of the way the vendor screams Italian while shaking a finger in his face.