Beneath the striped awning, tales unfold,
Of meats hung high in the winter's cold.
A butcher's trade, both grit and pride,
In Southwest Garden, time did bide.
With cleavers sharp and aprons white,
They served their craft by lantern light.
A market bustling, a bygone place,
Where history lingers in every trace.
The cobbled steps, the dog at play,
Echo whispers of another day.
O.C. Haenni's stands steadfast, true,
A portal to lives that once we knew.
