The Devil cornered me this morning 
I stood counting onions with lips pursed. 
Tell me what you saw! He giggled, like an angel gone insane. 
But why should I humour him, when he had plenty else to do?

That morning its handle broke, and the paper bag fell from my grasp and the onions spilled out and went rolling about, their skin caked in street-filth.

Everyone watched me: the newest object in the menagerie. 
Stooped low in an awkward bow, I gathered my things.

Back into the paper bag, now soggy and wet. 
And it was one woman who took pity on me: 
she stopped to gather onions with me, handing one or two over at a time. I watched her nervously, her hair drawn back
to show doe eyes, large and brown. Like chocolate. Or dirt in July. 

And when it was over I stood a moment longer 
relishing the moment she pressed an onion to my palm, and her fingers met mine.

A version of this poem was first published in The Pocket Poet, September 2026 Issue.