SENTINEL POETRY (ONLINE) #14     JANUARY 2004

JOHN THOMSON


MARKET VALUES.

It was a Saturday, I remember.
A mid-70s market morning. Light rain
slowly falling on wooden bric-a-brac.
We wandered in a grey September.
The smell of the over done hot dogs
mingled with candy floss. And ragged queues
soon formed, long and disorderly, for
football tops or cheap new shoes.
By then we had passed the antique stall
the months of polishing hid the defects
and you told me you were very bored
or bland tactful lies to that effect.
I shrugged , I think and it was done.
A simple act, the blank kindness of
opening a door for someone
who had just outgrown me. I felt numb
and watched the families pass. Bored
fathers, flushed mothers, children pushing
and no-one else seemed to notice
that the world had just stopped turning.
I visited the market yesterday
believing that I had myths to debunk
or ghosts to exorcise, I don`t know.
But it rained and they still sell junk.......

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