Like old friends do

The flea market.

And how the morning light
dust the setting.

The books, chairs, lamps,
stuffed animals.

Debris is a memory
that has been discarded.

Maybe that's why.

Because the stuff
still bear the smell
of their former owners.

Because they have still
their hidden history.

It's good to be here.

Not to buy anything,
not to collect something.

The unavoidable junk.

They make our proximity,
they comfort our life.

And what is more:
they survive us.

When I am buried
in this swampy ground
as a sober question mark,
things are still
on this asking earth.

Proud but modest.

Like silent companions.