Modern Poetry about Life: Morning Market

The sprinkler buzzed all the way.

Drowned the noise in the street and buzzed.

Run away and cross the road

Take a bath and breathe the first sunshine.

The sky looks really blue, with white clouds blossoming.

In the eyes of the ocean, pretending to be drunk.

Sheep in a line, chest

I lie prone on the ground, listening to the singing of Henan Opera.

Look up into the distance.

Let the owner's hand touch the granary at will.

Look at the glass bottle

Birds, secretly landed on cabbage leaves.

The bare white skin of corn.

The master of Ren Yuanyuan sings.

Cheap, come and buy, come and see.

After this village, there is no such shop.

A chattering crowd, a bee pupa.

The corn began to breathe.

Flowers bulged on the waist of the round belly.

A pair of old bark hands, fiddling with

Drop coriander, one by one.

Line up and smile brightly.

Throw yourself into the arms of the dollar, mud finger

Be careful to iron the burr of the money.

Put it in your pocket devoutly, Hua

The crowded senile plaque bent over with laughter.

Red taro stretched his neck.

Eavesdropping gossip about grapes and strawberries.

Man's car, sour grapes.

Peeping at women and strawberries

Red taro smiles while covering her mouth, strawberry

The red face is long gone.

Infatuation is still spreading in the laughter of the morning market.

The sun is lazy and blowing a big horn.

Shout in the crowd

Yes, yes, it's time.

Don't close the stall. I don't want a car.

With a bang, the morning market began to panic.

The bird screamed and ran away.

The morning market is full of hair.

The goat climbed into the car.

Go home after listening to the messy Henan Opera.

Like lightning, corn hides in it.

Get on the tram in a plastic bag

A handful of coriander

Still secretly waiting for the promise of a dollar.

Grape left without saying a word.

All kinds of plastic bags, alas

measure

Dirty floats in every corner.

The noise disappeared.

The morning market is over.

A new day, ordinary

Has it started?

Author: Zhang Xiaohong (WeChat official account: childlike innocence and home)

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