Flea Market

Flea Market

What they say is true

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure

Aged, rusted power tools

Sold next to beautiful lace gowns

An eclectic collection of items

A teenage girl sells her precious Barbie collection

An old man searches for a fender for a ’56 Chevy

Someone has something someone wants

Someone wants something someone has

All for sale for pennies on the dollar

The sounds of dickering fill the air

Mating with the scents of homemade cakes

It is the world of every market around the world

No matter where it is located

It is a very public world that is its own culture

Its own language

Its own idiosyncrasies

And that is why I love it

Uninvited

Uninvited

I don’t know where they came from

I never invited them

One came first

Maybe to scout the area

To find a decent starting point

Then five more

And then ten

The more I killed the more came

Toxic chemicals hid them from view

Still they came in ever-increasing numbers

I may fight on

I will fight until the day I die

Or the day I decide to shave my head

Even though the battle makes me want to pull my hair out

One by one or by the handful

No matter what

I will not allow the grey hairs win

I am just too young to surrender

Besides that I like my brown way too much for that.

Third Row Angel

Third Row Angel

Watching my television

The first baseball game I have been home for

Eight innings

Five strikeouts

Seventeen hits

A score of four to two

Yet, I never saw any of it

I watched the home plate shots

Shots made from centerfield

I could see you in the third row

Long blonde hair

Legs all the way up to your ass

You were perfection in a Tampa Bay Rays jersey

My heart broke when you went to get a beer

Your empty seat started at me

My heart stopped

My breathing went shallow until I saw you return

A pair of short pants and a Red Solo Cup

My team lost the day

Beaten to a bloody pulp

But I didn’t care

My only thoughts were simple

Are you a season-ticket holder

Will you once again be my third row angel

I will see tomorrow at seven o’clock

When ESPN is once again on my TV

And the umpire yells “Play Ball!”

Once again, if you are there the game will not matter

Too bad it will be a good game

I Don't Trust My Computer

I Don’t Trust My Computer

I don’t trust my computer

I won’t let it sleep

I know it dreams

That’s what bothers me

Is it wondering how to ruin my life

Then again is it truly asleep

It knows I have erectile dysfunction

It knows I dream about that redhead down the hall

It knows when I can sleep and when I can’t

I know sometimes it works for me as I sleep

Poems and stories on its screen I don’t remember writing

I also know it tortures me mentally

Showing pornographic pop-ups when my wife walks in

Ordering a lawn tractor for my fifth floor walk up

Saved emails sent at all hours of the night

I always trusted my pen and paper

The photo album I kept in my dresser

Still, I never trusted my computer

At least not since the lawn tractor was delivered today

So I will go and I will think

While I ride the tractor and cut my carpet

Maybe I can still trust my cell phone

At least until it butt dials one to many times

That will be the end

I will never trust a microchip again