red donkey

He loads up a mini-van every Sunday and drives across the river to the open-air flea market just off Exit 36. Back home, across the border, he’s an artisan. He makes things. Nice things. Beautiful things. Glorious things. But, here, he just sells junk, his and anyone else’s. He does find it ironic, that when he visits the richest nation in the world he makes more money selling gizmos and gadgets than he does at home, selling what his hands create with precision and an almost sacred care. But he has long quit questioning it, or anything like it. So, he smiles, nods, and collects a pocketful of dollars for an old bike, a used VCR, a painting of a southeast Asia landscape. Someone looking over his wares asks him for the time. He says, “It’s still early.” The browser nods and picks up a bright red plush toy, a donkey. A red donkey. Perfectly odd. Two bucks. Sold.