At their auction,
besides her face,
the Amish know Rosemary
only as Buyer 333.
Retired, she goes at least twice a week.
Today, bidding begins on a flat of annuals,
grows heated and fast
between 333 and 527.
The folks in front of Rosemary shift position
to ogle another flat,
revealing that rival 527 is an old neighbor
who Rosemary hasn’t seen in Lord knows how many years,
and, as the auctioneer raises the bid,
Rosemary points to 527 and smiles,
ceding the sale to her.
Instead of accepting the final bid,
the Amish auctioneer stops mid-call,
tips his black straw hat back a little
to look 333 straight in the eye,
and, with a Pennsylvania Dutch bite,
scolds, “There are no friends at the auction!”