Fish Stink

I still can remember the smell
Of it. The weekly ritual that was
The going to the fish market.
It was not Fulton Street, but
It measured up on the scale
Of competitive stink. After
My mother paid and packed
Away her paper-wrapped catch
We exited and right there
Just outside the door it stood
Tethered, a coin-operated steed,
Palomino, black leather saddle.
Dropped a quarter and rode off at
A gallop. Could not outrun the stink.