Someone is dead.
I know because the auctioneer,
in babbling auctionese,
is ridding the stuff once filling
the deceased’s life
For box lots of locks and hinges.
saws-alls, picture frames, china dolls,
frilly lace, tea cups and plates, “La Moge!”,
a Queen sized bed, where once,
perhaps, the deceased was king,
I flash my number to place my bids,
cheap at a dime on the dollar.
Early next morning, my treasure stored,
I stare, awaiting the uncertain
rising of the sun.