Today in my neighborhood was the annual, everyone-who-can has a Yard Sale, day. People drifted in and out, some walking, some biking, some driving through -- all searching for a perfect treasure and a really good deal. One woman inspired today's poem.
A Yard Sale and an Emery Board
She usually sits on her front steps
reading a juicy romance novel
while smoking what looks like
some sort of ultra thin cigarette
regal in her own mind, taking the story and nicotine in
I always want to take her picture when
I walk by
She's friendly, she catches my eye
Her yard is permanently filled with knick knacks and potential pre-hoarder trash
It seeps into the chairs and onto the window sill
The inside could be surprisingly clean,
but I doubt it
Today, she files her nails and waits
for strangers to approach her space, to
pick her brain about the price and availability of her things
Five dollars is too much, 25 cents each, can we trade?
She's calm, but she doesn't look these visiting vultures in the eye
Out of this world, these martians
they'd rather buy from her than
the other guys
Whatcha got that I can have?
Is it safe to purchase what is hers when she looks so awkward using her neon green emery board?