She deftly navigates the aisles of the flea market
without paying much attention to the furniture,
jewelry, rugs, posters, pottery, books, any of it.

Nibbling at a tissue-wrapped éclair in one hand,
she thumbs away at a cell phone game on the other
and, to the irritation of vendors and customers alike,

concurrently holds a conference call with speaker on.
She cuts deals, makes trades, accuses, cajoles.
A fluffy white Pomeranian on a leash of sapphire

beads is tethered to her gold lame belt.  She lashes
out at Bob, Eveline, and Joanna, principals
at the main office in New York. Time is short

and their proposal isn’t even half finished.
She is losing patience. What are they thinking?
she demands to know.  They barely get a word in

before she grows infuriated, telling them
they might just as well try their excuses on Brigette
so, she holds the phone down to the dog’s ear.

Bob and company mumble among themselves.
“What do you think, Brigette,” she asks, “can you
buy that?”  The dog growls. She hangs up,

pats the dog with the hand still clutching a remnant
of éclair in two fingers, and leaves a streak
of brown chocolate on its forehead.

She looks at the phone in disgust.  “Bunch of idiots,
if you ask me, Brigette.” The dog tugs her to a booth
with a grass green prayer rug and an $800 price tag.

“So, let’s have the verdict, Brigette? Are they fools,
or what?”  Brigitte pees on the rug. Her mistress
beams with delight and tosses the phone into her purse.

She reaches into her cleavage, counts out ten hundred
dollar bills from a roll containing twice that and tells
the rug seller, “I’ll take it; keep the change.”                                                        

“Good girl,” she praises tail-wagging Brigette
who stares at her ambiguously as she gets back
on the phone, this time to Chicago, screaming like hell.

– Philip Wexler