Flea Market

Where everything is old
And nothing is new.
Seeing my childhood
In the old.
Stealing a breath of fresh air
That the pages don’t.
Things are written in the hippocampus
Feelings that memories
Are hidden in the distance.
Among articles from the days of old
Ready to re-emerge
Gives me a feeling
Of unrest and despair.
Creepy memories
Lurking in the afghans and lamps.
Raged-Ann dolls
Carry the horrid scent
Of a stolen childhood.
Sight of the old
Brings a numbness
To my mind.
Strawberry shortcake books
Recover a memory
Of fantasy in play land.
The books I read
In my lonely corner
The fantasy life
I had to make up
Is persistent when I see old.
Walking through
The flea market of my mind
Doors of memories
Are opened
Despite
The resistance from the cobwebs.
Turning the knob
Going through the door
I see frames of pictures.
The snapshots are
Etched in stone,
Never to be washed away
By turpentine or
Forgotten by time.