Flea Market

The scent of stale popcorn and
deep-fried pork parts wafts like smoke
through the humid air
and settles in a blanket
over pushed-together tables
strewn with “one man’s trash”
and fading memories.

Stalking her prey,
the Bargain Hunter passes rows of treasures
just not exceptional enough for her collection,
like pink sunglasses, old makeup,
and boxes brimming with Happy Meal toys.
She passes the man with a week-old beard
and his collection of shiny butcher cleavers.
She passes the man with loud voice and fast arms
who promises your very own “Magic Pet”
for six dollars and fifty cents.

She pauses at a spread of naked Barbies,
hair matted, faces dirty,
plastic bodies glistening in the sun,
tiny, perfect faces still smiling,
though their little girl is nearly twenty now
and too sophisticated for such things.

She fondles the hilt of a pirate dagger
with the silhouette of bones carved into it.
“Complete with a collector’s case
and sharpener!  Only $20!”

The eyes of plastic ponies and
porcelain clowns
fix on her as she refuses them.
She thumbs through bins of disco records, but
Donna Summer was never her favorite,
and the day’s too hot for anymore Sunshine, so
she leaves KC behind too.
A shoebox of vintage wookies and droids looks promising,
but their paint-chipped armor
isn’t worth a Lincoln.

Crestfallen, she prepares to leave the sandy jungle
and take refuge in a glass of iced tea.
She sets her mind on her parking place and
drowns out the items on the tables she scurries past
with thoughts of a Jackie Collins novel and a cool, comfortable apartment.

She bends to pluck a rock from her Birkenstock
and finds herself eye-level with an antique perfume bottle,
wrapped in soft pink velvet, with a tarnished gold nozzle,
and dark purple pump.
The liquid fragrance is long dried from within,
but the suggestion of its sweetness draws her in,
and begs the question, “How much?”

At home with her treasure,
the Bargain Hunter strokes its velvet skin
and smiles into its empty belly.
A dollar well spent.