Old Ladies at the Flea Market
They most come here
every week whether they
need to or not, these old
ladies in wheelchairs, with
walkers, canes, surgical
stockings stretched over
swollen ankles, varicose
veins as they creep down
the aisles, stopping traffic
both to a fro, harder to
get around than The Seven
Rocks of Granite, blue hair
permanently waved & frozen
into place by aromatic sprays,
hoese dresses reeking of
mothballs & sweat, as they
go on talking, oblivious to
all else, occasionally eyeing
the goods laid out on tables,
pausing only to rearrange,
their handbags wrapped nine
times around their wrists,
you might have to amputate
to remove one against their
will; they touch stuff but
they never, ever buy.