Every Sunday for a thousand years
we go to the flea market near Preston Hollow
opposite shopping from those who go
to Bed Bath and Beyond for navy towels
who is there part of what
I’m always looking for.
Familiar man today a shopper
wearing a Grateful
Dead t-shirt he did not look though
wellness was a word he used told the
record vendor where he shopped
that he’d worked for Bob Dylan
before he was Bob Dylan. My mother
hated Bob Dylan said the vendor. Then he asked:
Who was Dylan before.
One thing I’ll say said the man in the T-shirt.
He could sing.
Very large man with a sign saying All Conspiracies
Are True sold many earrings for $1 each.
After a while of looking, I bought three pairs.
Where did you get them I asked.
Wouldn’t you like to know he replied.
Couple i’ve seen for years
bought some things from them too
they live in Clifton Park
she talks a lot he says nothing
today she said I have four sons
in their fifties and they’re all gay.
Did I ever tell you that before?
All the intimacy and awkwardness I love. In a market, people reach for each other for reasons all their own.
I love flea markets and thrift shops and this poem made me feel like I was right there :)