As Is

Just north of town, a quaint Sargasso Sea

for bric-a-brac: the barn, itself antique,

spills over with a grab-bag panoply

of outworn stock revalued as “unique.”

Typewriters tall as headstones fill the loft

where they’ve been ricked away like sacks of grain;

a coffer yawns the must of oak—gone soft—

when one man, squinting, lifts the lid to feign

intrigue. Nearby, his wife surveys the smalls:

art deco bangles bright as harpsichords,

a glut of iron trivets, Christmas balls,

Depression glass and warping Ouija boards.

One man’s junk is another’s all the same.

They don’t buy much, but that’s not why they came.