So the sign said.
It was late in the day, most sales were closed
but who can resist
a sign like that? Big. Big, Big, but the road
was small, small, small
and twisting beside a creek,
past a barn with Treat Yourself to the Best,
past a trailer and eight pit bulls
that tried to chew the tires,
then up, up, up
a narrower, rutted hill,
looking down to green valley, pink peach blossom
and the sparkling muddy creek.
It seemed like we drove for hours, following signs
to the big, big, big yard sale.
Past a church, past trash-littered roadside,
past coltsfoot-lined hillside
there it was.
Bedframes and car parts and buckets
and singletrees and hames and glassware
all strewn across the yard in front
of a deep-porched, low-built house.
The porch was full too, and we looked
for dogs, the biting kind.
A man came out, bearded and bibs
and all smiles.
“You got any bitin’ dogs?”
“Naw,” he replied, ” get on out,
you ain’t in Deliverance country. Yet.”
It’s his kingdom, that place on a ridge
far back from the two-lane, stores, people and news.
From there he can sell all day, every day, his
Trump-stickered truck not going out except to sales
and auctions to buy more stock.
A woman, gray-haired and smiling, his sister,
worked by his side.
We left with boxes of his junk in our van,
our money in his pocket,
waving and promising to return.
That big, big, big yard sale
has more to offer than junk,
and it’s free.
A work in progress. First draft.