The Modern Bazaar

The Modern Bazaar
Sunday at the flea market
Pasty-faced elderly sellers in Monday work clothes
Sweating under the bright umbrellas of their booths
Stoop over goods they've gathered from everywhere
They gawk out onto the throng of potential buyers
And point with gnarled fingers to today's bargains
They shout out in loud seller's voices, hawking
Their wares as those wares were hawked in ancient
Exotic bazaars among the smells of spices
Beside caravans of wondering nomads in forgotten lands
That only the history texts serve to tell again
Reaching out to a time long forgotten
Where nobody remembers now

None of us has winced at the sight of
a slave auction
young girls for sale
none of us after arduous days
on smelly camels
and moving through hostile lands through dark of night
have been recognized by the hordes of huns
that were bolder than anyone living
so in the market, we mimic the style
that has long been forgotten
we barter in booths for the midden of others
turning trash into treasures like primeval wonderers
connecting to a time that no one remembers.