Not really a tag sale

The day was winding down with slow roll in Ashfield

Red and golden leaves painting every square inch of the county

A three-piece kit and tinny guitar felt almost diagetic

My mother catches sight of a tag sale

"Oo!"

I sink, thinking "not another..."

It wasn't buying anything that made the trips worth it

The colors, the bumpy roads, the cold air just outside the window

These were unforgettable

But I had little skill for expression back then

And so I hopped out

Stained glass lit up the house in jarring colors

The man was a painter, she said

Someone she went to school with

We got met with a kind smile

"Teddy! This must be Clay."

It seemed so odd that my mother was so well known

She never seemed to hang out with people very much

Hard to believe, given how a wonderful she was

As they talked I roamed around to check out his "works"

Copper fish, dangling glass, abstract canvases

No, I did not see the appeal

Given, all the art I knew was on lined paper

Must have been a cool guy though, my mom liked him

I then found myself in a gallery room surrounded by feathered thespians

So, feeling unqualified, I went to my mom and let her know I'd be sleeping in the car

She sighed and told me she'd be quick

I felt bad but the patchouli started getting to me

After a few minutes she hopped into the car

"Not really a tag sale, I guess." She said

"No. Kinda hippy dippy."

"Lets go home. I'll make spahgetti."