PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I'd been eyeing him across the parking lot all morning, a gorgeous guy sitting next to an old man in a wheelchair. Though I couldn't see exactly what was on their table I imagined it was what most men sold at flea markets in this area - collectible knives, military surplus, ammo, maybe a contraband gun or two hidden under the front seat of their truck.

I loathed being there, but having that guy to look at made it much easier. I'm lousy at sitting still and making small talk. I would much rather probe your psyche than chat about the weather, or more likely the drought, this being Arizona. I wouldn't have been there at all but I was trying to clear out my studio so I could get my hands back in clay again. Years of neglect has left it cluttered with every sort of junk that I don't have room for in my house. No I am not a hoarder, I'm a recycler. I always have it in the back of my mind that I can use that junk for some crazy art project (hey it could happen:b). And as I am much better at making pottery than I am at selling it, there are bowls, plates, mugs & vases stacked everywhere. Flea markets were my mother's gig not mine. If she was still alive I wouldn't be sitting here at all or have so much clutter around the house. She had considered my forty to be her own personal junkyard. My ex had been a collector of crap so there are piles and piles of it to select from. Also she'd have already gone across the way, introduced herself to that gorgeous guy and learned his entire life story. Mom was a people person. She once told me that she had met a woman in a restaurant bathroom in Phoenix whose parents had come from the same small village in Czechoslovakia that her parents had emigrated from. How is this possible? And moreover how did she glean that kind of information in the short amount of time it took to wash her hands!

My mother definitely had the gift of gab. And lying, which she called embellishment. She felt that the junk would sell better if there was some kind of story that went with it - like "my mother brought this frying pan with her from the old country". Never mind that it was teflon coated and her mother had come here in the 1920s.

By the end of the day I was giving stuff away just because I did not want to take it home. What was left I threw into boxes not bothering to wrap the breakables. I didn't even notice when that gorgeous guy from across the parking lot had strolled over. "Hello?"

I looked up and in his hand he held the sign that was displayed on my table which read 'Make Me An Offer'. He grinned, "If I help you pack up will you have coffee with me?"