Fighting at the Fleas - or Owner's Regret.

I have gone through a number of these to raise money and the first is no easier that the last. Life is no picnic if you have to sell your stuff to survive, which I barely am these days.

Another weekend has arrived,

to drag all your possessions to the flea markets,

the dive.

To part with some more of your precious things.

Memories of when life was good and maybe you had some bling.

You setup your tables and your shade,

load up all your tables with everything could have money made.

Marking at prices where you think they will sell.

But still your thoughts are like hell.

You got this someplace long ago and that when you refused to grow.

From early in childhood or late in life,

matters not if you feel the strife.

Memories come and memories roll,

you still hate to see these things go.

A dollar here or a quarter there,

just remember life is not fair.

You tell them thank you with a smile,

even if you are crying for a while.

One by one they disappear into a bag and gone from here.

As the day still drags on,

more things sell.

More memories have gone to the depths of hell.

You know it must be done,

To survive another day is fun.

The day is done and you go home,

through an emptier house you roam.

Remember what was here and over there,

stuff is missing every way.

Still another day is ahead and you wish you were dead instead.

The morning rises without incident and you plan your day without a  hitch.

You pick out other trinkets to sell and still you go into another day of living hell.

You setup like before,

as if you were running a store.

Again customer pick and choose something that you will lose.

It’s best not dwell on the last day and concentrate on what to tell everyone that your day was not gray.