Uninvited Images

by Robert Carr

I set up at the Hens and Heirlooms market,
dress my tables with unworn sarongs,

display my wears. A wooden crib in cracked
white paint, Shirley Temple with a glass

eye that never opens. In her lap,
a mother of pearl handled magnifier.

The view fills with vendors. Beside me,
a baker unpacks warm zucchini bread

In another aisle, a child’s blonde braid
sways over a pink tee. The flag on her back,

black with tattered edges. She turns.
TRUMP emblazoned at her budding.

Damn my mind, the scent of yeast, these
uninvited images—Well, that’s about the age,

I reckon. A breeze rises. Dresses turn
on hooks at the clothing dealer, strawflower

chokes in the chicken wire wall of autumn
wreaths. Through clear though churning skies—

a powder of aspen leaves. The yellows
twist and fall, a pageant of little girls.