a cry heard in the neighborhood
about once a month from
the old man on his horse drawn cart
& we kids would panic every time
searching for tin cans old metal old clothes
while our mothers would just scream no!
as we’d drag out old saucepans clothes
empty cupboards cobwebbed drawers
the rag bone was a scary fella to us
holding riches if approached right
an old iron bedstead
would get a bow & an arrow
stolen bag of clothes
a red or yellow goldfish in a plastic bag
while we’d watch in awe
these transactions taking place over our heads
watching wary the horse feared to bit
the whip there by the old mans boot
& he’d be gone with his bits & pieces
on the wooden flat bed of his clanking cart
as we stood admiring in envy the arrow bow
the goldfish leaking into the street
I followed him once from a distance
to a wooden garage lock up
peeking through the gap between the doors
wanting piles of bows arrows goldfish in tanks
but saw only rags piling up lost riches sad forlorn
& then he never came back again rag boooone!
such anachronisms defeated by modernity
to return no more
