Everywhere we walk at the art fair
Our first purchase in hand
People stop to admire it
The inlaid, geometric perfection
Of a cutting board assembled like
The lobby floor of a Jazz Age hotel
We tell them over and over
Where the artist’s booth is
Urging them to go, to buy
But that light leaves their eyes a bit
When we mention the $150 price tag
When I asked the artist how long
Each piece took, he told me a month
I want to look the others straight
In the eye and say, as if agreeing
“Yes, $150 is highway robbery,
he is selling himself far too short”
I don’t know what I would charge
For a month of my life
But it would be more than that
If I could find a buyer
April 27, 2024
From “Price Cutting” by Anonymous
Posted by alexp01 under Excerpt | Tags: fiction, story |Leave a Comment
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