Already a small queue of gypsies,
tooled up with Asda ‘ bags for life’.
Staking our place ,
we are eyed like new hookers on the block.
More pick up trucks screech into the car park,
children gust through us squealing ‘Grandma’
mobbing the matriarch with the fence’s face ,
whose body oozes over a stool.
We flatten against walls with watery smiles
as the parents sweep past ,
their starling clamour filling the tiny vestibule.
Scouring the line for members of our own tribe,
two women in wax jackets and pearls
deceive us, they are wearing past jumble spoils.
I ram my neighbours’ conversation
for intelligence on future sales,
they open up the width of a door chain,
throw two websites at me,
then show their backs again .
Will they open early? begins to ripple through the ranks,
but the entrance remains jail tight.
Finally the clunk of a bolt followed by cries of Move back,
as two ladies struggle to open the door
against a drift of bodies.
With a sudden sugar rush of cupidity,
I muscle into the hall , elbows sharpened
and lunge at the bric a brac.