Blessed be the invisible hand of the market
that prodded the opening of a dozen eateries
over the course of just a year: trusty old supply
meeting fresh demand like a May-December affair.
Blessed be the shopkeepers and their workers
fielding orders feverishly with no proper workflow
to speak of, just the beautiful mess of paying attention.
Blessed be the elderly couple selling diced turnip and
papaya, retirement far from their minds; and the
peanut vendor glad to be overwhelmed in the
noontime sun by a small mob, with their one-word
conversations of “Sweet,” “Salty,” and “Spicy.”
Blessed be the narrow, wet sidewalk made narrower
by all this pop-up commerce, and blessed the
city administrators—maybe customers themselves—
who have not yet thought to demolish the whole thing.
Blessed be the regularized woman on the way to
remitting cash back home; blessed especially the old
beggar and his special child, patient in their spot and
grateful with every gift; and the workmates jostling
and jesting, passing up the mall not only for something
cheaper and healthier but also to be nourished
by an unsanitized view of the different walks of life.