the flea market

it's a warehouse of
discarded things, one's junk

is another's gold.
lamps and chairs, silver forks
and knives.

crystal glasses.
pearl necklaces worn
in a different era.

the whole place a dust ridden
portal
in time.

she bargain hunts with nothing
in mind,

nothing needed
and stops
at one station to talk to an
old

man about a wooden bowl.
he tells her about
the tree it

came from. how he used his
tools to carve it down,

to mold it into what
it is now. he seems to be
on the verge of crying.

or he could be tired.
who's to know.

he wants to tell her more,
more of the story, the long
detailed history
of the bowl, but instead he says

make me an offer, while
rubbing the side of his face,

the sandpaper of grey bristles.
she looks at me and I shrug.

we move on.