Car Boot
By birksy
Through thick, unkempt, grass once clean boots stop, and start, and scuff dogs cock their legs on worn down table legs, and lolly sticks land all bent and skewed. Upon the tables people pounce, as cats on mice, on any bric-a-brac antique which may lie quietly under-priced, their hands turn, twist it this way and that, check for chips or cracks. While in the cars, boots raised as giant canopies or gaping mouths, the sellers sit, with flasks of tea and sandwiches, watching as sharp as hawks, at same hands. The hot dog stand does swift business, the bin doth overflow with empty cartons or half eaten meat, the aroma just keeps reeling them in The strongest sense is smell. Then the boots pull close, carefully wrapped belongings press against the heated glass as they topple their way home. The unkempt grass is now only moved by the wind, and the sticks are left alone. Written May 30th, 1998 © on Sep 04 2001 08:50 AM PST, Simon Birks 0 • 10
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"Through thick, unkempt, grass..."