Standing at another crappy old yard sale
Wishing they had something I liked.
Money I’ve got in reasonable numbers
That’s not a problem, the offerings are.
Old clothes and shoes, treen and towels
Fancies and iron tools, worn with use
On sale real cheap, yours for a pittance.
But local post cards none to be found, neither
Old photos, fragile ferrotypes, paper
Worthy of note, pun intended. That.
But now and then a brush of the fingers
Reveals, well, you know how “pleasure”
And “treasure” happen to rhyme? Bingo.
That’s why I go to yard sales.