When it hasn't been raining,
And I'm early for work,
I drive through the flea market parking lot
To see last weekend's castoffs
In their native habitat
It's mostly trash.
Hell, it's all trash
In one way or another.
The furniture stands out because of its height in the parking lot.
It's usually the press-board kind that you build yourself and which are now bookshelves and dressers slouching in the stylings of Pisa, Italy... or whose paper skins have succumbed to years of cat scratches and southern sunlight.
The most ubiquitous feature is the cardboard box.
Every station, it seems, has at least one.
Nearly all of them hold merchandise at one time or another.
Some also served as cash registers, others served as lunch pails.
I suspect that some have served as play pens for vendors' children.
In whatever case, by Monday morning, their carcasses are strewn about the battlefield rather ingloriously.
My favorite things are the heaps and assemblies of black metal tubes and black or gray foam, upholstery, or straps.
At this point, my imagination is free to wonder whether these were once objects for organizing offices, promoting physical fitness or enhancing sexual pleasure.
Some may have been used for two or three of those purposes at different times.
Nice to start the week with a grin and a chuckle, anyway.
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