A gray haired lady sits in a rocker
on her face a near blank stare.
Her glazed eyes fix on a window
as a crowd now gathers there.
Her husband passed on last year,
her children no one can find,
a stroke now leaves her silent
near helpless and weak of mind.
The auctioneer begins his chant
holding items high in his hand,
her life’s belongings he will sell
to the highest bidder from his stand.
Who’ll start the bid on these old jars?
Some with glass lids, most are blue.
Did I here someone say one dollar?
Oh! Come on now do I hear two?
The old ladies hands begin to tremble
her fingers warped by work and time,
her tired hands had filled those old jars
to sell them would seem short of crime.
Here we have a row of box lots
in each treasures untold you’ll find.
Highest bidder will take first pick
the rest each same price, if of a mind.
Now we move on to the fire arms.
Quickly! No time to dally long.
The owner kept them oiled and clean,
each gun he cherished, now he’s gone.
Soon the outside grounds were empty,
selling what’s left inside won’t take long.
Left only antiques and family keepsakes,
and her life’s possessions shall be gone.
By now my mind begins to question
how can life be so cruel, unfair?
A rag doll lay upon an antique table
with rosy cheeks and red yarn hair.
The old lady's head turned slowly
tears filling her saddened eyes,
her aging fingers clutched the doll
a spark of memory seemed to rise.
“Raggedy Ann” from an old rag bag
stuffed with love by someone dear,
was a gift from her sweet mother
held to her heart year after year.
A man's voice echoed from the crowd,
come on“auction off that doll and chair.”
“I don’t want old grandma in the deal,”
such unkind remark, faces turned to stare.
Auctioneers deal with such cutting words
become quite callous and often hard,
only one bid on the doll and chair
then no hands, no bids, no card.
The auctioneer's heart softened
with quivering voice and in tears,
he placed the final bid himself,
"The doll and chair are yours my dear."
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