On Saturday morning the neighbors convene,
Old tables and tents on a carpet of green.
Each driveway a border, each box a new gate,
We barter our birthright, we auction our fate.
Glass goblets and medals, the stories we shed,
Our memories lined up in columns and spread.
Some shoppers come early, with eyes cold and keen,
They measure our treasures for scrap or for sheen.
A suit with dark glasses, a coin in his palm,
He buys grandma’s rocker, the porch now gone calm.
The children protest, “That’s more than a chair!”
But, “It just gathered dust,” is all grownups declare.
Deeds to the backyard, flags faded with pride,
Sold off to strangers with secrets to hide.
A ticket of gold, a rule in disguise,
Whoever now holds it decides what survives.
“Isn’t this worth more than pennies or dimes?”
But the sellers just chuckle, “It’s simply old times.”
A handshake, a whisper, a deal made in shade,
While memories scatter and legacies fade.
In the scramble for profit, for clearing some space,
We give away roots for a moment’s embrace.
The buyers drive off, their trunks heavy with gains,
What’s left is a silence, a loss that remains.
A patch of green grass, the last place to play,
Is claimed by the children who plead for delay.
Some neighbors awaken and quietly pause,
Deciding at last there’s a line, there’s a cause.
By evening the sunlight is harsh on the ground,
The chair’s absent echo the only new sound.
I sweep off my steps and I quietly muse,
What have we surrendered and what did we lose?
Were these only trinkets, just clutter, just things?
Or heirlooms of freedom, of rights, and of springs?
Too easy to sell what can never return—
Some lessons are lost and some bridges must burn.
So mind what you bargain, and mind what you sell,
For once it is gone, there’s no story to tell.
Protect what is precious, resist quick reward—
Or tomorrow you’ll find you’ve sold more than you stored.
