On tops of tables

Laid out like blankets,

Scattered trinkets laid about,

Trying to find space among the

Crowds of

Cracked sprockets and

Rusty whistles

(Who  now do little more than

Rattle at this point)

And perforated Christmas cards

…That melt like snowmen in the summer

…That melt like snowmen in the summer

Line the tops of these

Furious folding tables.

Fabricating a patchwork table cloth,

A spiders web of junk.

While still maintaining  specific identity as well

As an unique price.

A bin of green army men

Missing their  guns

Missing their mission

Wearily watch for any signs of enemy movements.

Surveying the adjacent tables,

Some piled with rolling hills of washed denim,

Casually hiding some miscellaneous pocket change,

Casualties buried beneath pocket lint.

The lead table,

The only island

To which the magnetic collectors gravitate towards,

Like orbiting stars.

Absorbs all life,

Absorbs all money,

Haggling is a treacherous language here,

That can cut like scimitars

That can drown out blaring radios.

These watches and

Copper pendants

These Ferrous few,

Are worth more than their respective weight in scrap,

Worth more than all the false rubies and

Any amount

(Measured even in cubic feet)

Of cubic zirconia

They are worthy of their own category.

They are  both the kings and queens of this bazaar.

Costume jewelry take off their masks as they approach.

Plastic brooches beseech themselves,

Politely turning up their collars.

And from far away, off hiding in a  crate on the

Luscious, velvet grass.

Lying amidst the grasshoppers and the scarabs,

Are the family portraits.

The mummified faces of so many not yet deceased

The family portraits that always smile.

Even when captured between pages.

Some of the pictures,

Displaying a magical moment shared between family or friends


Their porcelain skin captured on tiny scraps of the silver screen.


That porcelain moment captured on tiny scraps of the silver screen.

And then tucked in a manila envelope,

Protected by the scholarly moth balls,

Protected by so many crystal balls,

These families of faces,

Never willing to break their covalent bond,

Used now, instead

Albeit, inadvertently

As forgotten bookmarks,

In  textbooks never  quite given a reason to be finished.

…In the first place

In glossy magazines that were never quite meant to be finished,

…In the first place.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s