Selected Poems
Cottonwood meadow swap meet
A tradition since anyone roadside in town
has been able to remember, on every third
Sunday afternoon, under spotty shade and snow
of cottonwood trees gone to seed, a swap-meet.
Volunteers sort out, bits into bins and place on
three corner long lines of unfolded tables that
hold another man's treasure, which had just left
another man's home this morning to travel here.
Some come clothed, like Chloe, in this Sunday's
best arrive by 1pm after church, by plan
or chance to stand two or three rows deep
to see what might be worth taking away.
Dan the security guard, sits nearby, waits
to settle any arguments about what is free, just
in case this rapid exchange of hand me downs
gets suddenly out of hand. Dan has little to do.
Clouds whittle away what is left of another
summer after-noon, where rejects remain
left right, where they had been dropped off.
Everyone has refused the set of funeral cards.
What remains, faces relegation to the last avenue
thrift store, stands coated in a fluff blanket of seed
passed over by dinnertime, what once was greatly needed.
