A.N. - This poem was all about the title. It was for a contest that specifically wanted long titled poems.

As The Pile of Junk Generously Labeled Antiques Tumbles Onto the Octogenarian

The boy looks up from his ice cream
as the sound of splintering wood,
louder than the blaring Elvis tunes
or gossiping of the proprietors,
pierces the dust-clogged air,
drowning the warbling, croaking pleas
of the housecoat-adorned browser
who only wanted to see the price tag
on that duvet wedged under the pile
of once-collectable plates stacked
none-too-neatly on a rickety bookshelf
that had decided it had had enough,
thank-you-very-much.

The boy's ice cream slides off the cone
and onto the table, lowering its value
in hundreds of dollars the further
the melting puddles spreads and seeps in.

Shoppers, noses buried in old furniture,
barely take notice as the old lady
is swallowed up by the detritus of ages
inherited from dead parent's estates
and put on sale to the unwashed masses
in dingy boothes in a converted barn
lacking air conditioning, which,
considering the plight of the shopper,
might just be beneficial.

She will never be heard from again.