There is a predatory notice

in the limbic eyes of an auction-goer:

Strike now! Take a chance with the drill-press-thing---

or is it a riveter or veneer slicer---

the attached shop light alone is worth the price.

The auction boss sets the stage---

smashed up pipe clamps, dried-glue glaze on them,

---get the juices flowing, appetizers---

you can buy these cheaper at Sears,

doesn't matter, it's an auction,

and pull up those Levi's before you trip,

or a fork lift mashes your instep. 

Like a stand-up comic in a cheap beer joint,

the Auctioneer is an Enforcer:

"Buddy, you wanna set the bid, 

then come on up here in front. No?

Then let's start the bid again.

Do I hear thirty dollars for them pipe clamps?"

A little higher on the food chain, 

I scoop up a solid machine which has a stomach ache

from eating a sanding belt and a saw blade.

As I cut a small vintage table saw from the herd,

The dignity of the previous owner flashes at me from

well oiled steel surfaces honed to perfection;

I feel like I have taken advantage, even given the spoils of war---

like the football game at OCS in Newport---

when I pushed the player's face into the mud,

after I had him down. 

Lugging the prize saw to my car

I stopped by Fred's Food Wagon

for the only bargain within a hundred feet---

a 50 cent combo of donut and coffee---

and spied a note duct taped to the handle:

"Sammy, your Grand Dad wanted you to have this.

I don't have a lot of money right now,

So I'm sending it freight collect to your office."

Oxy Mora.