The Flea Market Poet

by Samuel De Lemos

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On a Warm summer day we head off to the flea market in downtown San Jose.
Looking around checking each isle, people’s life’s were on display.
Selling their wares; clothing, tools and toys.

What’s a flea market?

People’s things are being sold, some for a nickel, some for a dime.
Lots of people were wondering around, all trying to score a steal.
We met a poet there, on the dirt floored streets. He was naked, except for his loins. A shaman with a staff, a leather skinned teller of tales. He came to me, as he saw me from a far. His nakedness adorned with beads and necklaced shells. This is what he said,

“I’m the flea market poet
This is my domain
I cruise the isles
I put in my miles.
My skin is brown
Yet my words are
My crown.”

Ha! “Did you hear that?” I said, to my wife. “Who is this man, with such elegant words?” Stunned we just looked at each other and smiled.

I asked him. “What’s your name, man?” Which he responded and said,

“I have no name, sir
I go around roaming
These here streets
Trying to find
the next sweet beats.
You see I’m the poet
laureate of these dirty
Streets.”

In between the cars, pineapples and peanuts stands, I met a most incredible man. The Flea Market Poet roaming in between the stands.

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