Second-Hand

"Three of it or none at all!"
Almost his motto.
The invisible librarian of bartered treasures;
Things borrowed, stolen, earnt.
Things sold.

They come at eleven-thirty;
The latest generation, the Young Things,
Cooing  and holding hands,
All flowers and chocolate and petnames.
Just moved in together, they proudly inform him,
Pots and pans for their new home.
The sizzle of passion, repression, confusion.
Unbridled, untested, new.
It fogs up the dirty glass,
Makes everything look a little more worn.

At midday, there's a woman,
One of his native species,
Her hair hangs limp, nails blood-red,
Lip twisted in a bitter snarl.
She pushes the box across the counter;
Razors, trophies, a set of cufflinks.
What remained when love, trust and honesty,
All found someone younger.
The fiasco of her love life,
Scooped up in a cardboard carton.
They complete the ritual,
She leaves fifty dollars richer,
With some pride conjured from the dusty till.
More goods for his shelves,
New things to replace the old.

Closing time crawls forward again,
She just makes it,
Hidden behind a white washing basket.
Thin and slow and creaky,
As always.
Face withered like an old pumpkin.
Not living well.
He peers into her basket;
Cookie jars and napkin holders,
And old pots and pans.
Every week it's a little more,
Another chunk of her past sold,
Just to keep the lights on.
He'll never sell any of it,
But it's all she's got.
There's just her and the ring now;
A breathtaking piece,
Silver twisted roses,
As star-bright as the day she wore white,
And married a plucky young soldier,
All those years ago.
It's valuable, they both know.
As always, he offers her the usual sum;
Enough for three month's worth of groceries and good living.

He gets nothing for his shelves, just ceramics and glass.
He waves back and shuts the grate,
Lights a cigarette and takes a hungry drag,
Filling the shelves with jars and pots.
He smiles as he works;
"Three of it or none at all."