Press Releases

Monterey Market By lENORE WATERS

Friday December 30, 2005




Pumpkins heaped one story high! 

As high as the sky! 

Pre-schoolers climb the orange  


Down again, backward. Feet first, head first, wriggling. 

Running between bins of squash 

Pink, orange, yellow-green 

Yellow and green, pink and orange 


Skidaddling among boxes of beans 

Black-brown, red, white 

White and red, brown and white 

Then up the pumpkin pile again. 

I choose this one, it’s the BIGGEST. 

I want this, IT’S THE most  


I NEED this one. 

How will you carry it? 

I can carry it I’m strong. 


Inside, the chaos is the vegetables  

and fruits 

All colors, all vying for attention 

Ugli fruit 

Rome Beauties 

Grotesque Fungi 

Pear shaped pears 


Tiny tamarinds 

Gargantuan grapefruit 

Red hot peppers 

Cool green Collards 




Browsing through the apple aisle 

I notice a hand written sign 

Arkansas Black Apple: Locally grown 

I pick one up in astonishment 

Indeed, part of it is a red so dark,  

It is almost black. 


The rest of this apple is red apple color, 

A little sunshine yellow. 

Is this fruit a metaphor, a simile,  

an allegory, or a saga? 

Did a family of Dust Bowl migrants from the 30’s bring the seed, 

Crossing deserts, mountains, and fording streams in their Model T Ford? 


I too am a migrant 

But I brought nothing as lasting  

As this apple. 


I put it in my basket. 

Two days later, it’s in the food section of the New York Times 

It’s a very trendy heirloom apple 

From Arkansas originally 

Now grown in California 


Well well well 

So much for poetry 

I eat the apple. 




Late October Evening 


Outside the Monterey Market, the pumpkin is less high. 

A few children, in that whiney mode between school and home, 

Try to climb the pile. 

Their irritated just home from work parents shout them down 


I’m here searching for the perfect  

persimmon for a salad 

I have no small children, I can take my time. 

Just a few left, all bruised and squishy. 


The purple and green figs are lying in their beds 

Looking gray and sickly. 

I take the remaining persimmons, someone has to care for them 

At least they don’t whine. 


Inside, the market looks dingy. 

The arugula, crisp this morning, is wilting. 

I hold a leaf, crush it, and sniff what I like to think of 

As the aroma of a Mediterranean hill side. 


A nice thought, a bit pretentious, 


Still, good salad makings. 

With a baguette 

This is all I need for supper 


I try to comfort a mewling child 

And go home to my solitary meal