the neighborhood flea market
is on.
early on saturday
morning.
the clothes are stretched out
on racks.
the pictures taken off
the walls
and now lean
against a box, or table
also for sale.
and the owners sit
in their folding chairs
and wait for buyers to show.
there's an old rug, rolled
out on the lawn,
a pair of ice skates,
a book about New Zealand,
a felt hat,
a toaster oven full of
crumbs.
a princess phone.
a fur coat, and a man's
suit, one wedding, one
funeral,
hardly worn.
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