That turning around and walking out the door,
that nausea you get in an opportunity store,
when otherwise pretense
such as Xmas decoration
hi-lites
that everything for sale has in common
that its previous owner
didn't love it any more.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You've found an amazing title for this nausea of a junk/charity/'collectables' shop! I knew schmerz; had to look up schlock! Second-hand stuff divides: you either like or hate it. I agree they're often airless.