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"That’s six cents a pound for your rags.
For junk I can maybe pay more."
He sets the brake and the horse flags,
Almost at once starting to snore.
The woman walks to the gutter
With a bundle made of torn dress.
Peering close, he’s heard to mutter,
"Hmm, seven pounds would be my guess."
He hooks up the hand-held brass scale
To the knot, and hefts with a smile.
She squints eyes to see that the sale
Corresponds with marks on the dial.
"Seven and a half. Missed again."
She does the multiplication,
And says, "That’s forty-five cents then."
He says, "That’s my calculation."
Dropping the change into her palm,
He turns, putting foot on a spoke,
And pulls himself up with one arm -
At movement the horse almost woke.
Once more the pair were on their way,
Driver looking toward all the doors.
"Giyup! Rags? Any rags today?"
While the somnambulant nag snores.
© Richard McCusker (jotoma@bellsouth.net)
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