flea market finds

“High Tide”

The first thing, when exiting
your vehicle
you notice, is the sound.
A roar, a murmur, a palpable
tension, excitement, that
throbs and pulses.
The full moon rising in
the blue sky, tugging at
your water, drawing pathways in the
synapses of your reptilian brain.
Your eyes, dart, flick, flick,
flick; there, over there! See that!
So you run, walk
quiver in ecstasy at the sight of
high tide.
Picking through the wrack of human debris,
junk, piles of junk, toys
sinks, boxes and boxes of
ephemera.
Only a dollar, only a dollar, the contrast between
new and old,
booths full of salvage, once shining
and full of promise
now just junk, buried
in the sands, a monument to
our follies.
Landfill after landfill, full to the brim,
our cultures greatest gift
to our grandchildren.
Our high tide
Our ephemera for
sale, one dollar at a time.

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