Saturday Morning Treasures

Tables sprawl across the driveway's width,

Laden with the archaeology of living—

Chipped coffee mugs that held a thousand mornings,

Books with broken spines and penciled margins,

A rocking horse with faded painted mane.

The early birds arrive before the sun

Has burned the dew from yesterday's newspapers,

Their practiced eyes scanning for hidden gold:

That Depression glass bowl marked fifty cents,

The vintage brooch tucked in a jewelry box.

Children's clothes hang limp on makeshift lines,

Outgrown in seasons that flew by too fast.

A wedding dress sleeps in a garment bag—

Someone's fairy tale, now priced to move.

The seller sits behind a card table throne,

Calculator ready, stories half-untold.

Each sale a small goodbye, each coin received

A gentle severing from what once mattered.

By afternoon, the crowd has thinned to stragglers.

What remains gets boxed for charity,

While memories, lighter now, drift back inside

To rooms that echo with newfound space.

The signs come down, the tables fold away,

But somewhere else, these treasures start again—

New shelves, fresh stories, another Saturday morning

When someone else will sell their yesterday.