Big Big Big Yard Sale

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

and then

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.

We will.

That big, big, big yard sale

has more to offer than junk,

and it’s free.


A work in progress. First draft.


About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
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