Yard Sale Millionaire

Swishing through a summer storm
I silently surmised as my jeans became sodden
How on earth the tables now covered
in hastily assembled tarpaulins and rags
Draped over the hidden treasures of a
Hopeful collection, buried til now in the
Sept of a split-level garage –
How on earth or in heaven, this modern archaeologist
planned on dispensing with these things.
I imagined pharaohs and Tutankhamen
Plundering their own hordes – preparing for an afterlife
Bury this servant; let that one live –
Bring the copper dishes, but let Aunt Akhenatan keep the rest.
Those Egyptians weren’t up on current trends,
But how could they be; with Yard Sale signs invested on each intersection,
Houses advertised from eleven to three on some Saturday in August.
And to my weary wet and squishing shoes
My eyes now fell, as deep into a ponderous trance I lunged –
Baseball card collectors are fetishists.
Somehow I just know that in the future some
Investigator of our times will brandish Mike Greenwell and say
He was the God of Fertility, diminished now to an image
In the great period of the Iconoclasts, hovering between then and now
His playful smile and trickster ways were trodden upon
And he became Fey. Or is it that Ebay will fetch
That prize our Hero seeks, the cash from plates and bobble-heads
Investments in a future sound – no speculation!
Something you can hold onto, something secure;
Not like rolling your money away under a bed,
Or betting on Amazon. I just wonder
about this Yard Sale Millionaire – or as I see him
Soon to be.
I just wonder; is he filling that garage up again?
What are his plans?


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