There’s something sad about a yard sale.
Even the cardboard sign is forlorn, tacked
lopsided to a telephone pole,
directing scavengers to the carcass,
where they rip and tear, search
for vitals. Once-precious relics strewn atop
folding tables convey certainty that
anything loved may one day
be unwelcome, relegated
to the dark, swaddled in dust. It’s where
I expect to find myself someday,
in a bargain bin
scratching foolscap with a fountain pen,
crafting poems for neighbors
who want nothing more
than popcorn with their sitcoms.
Yard Sales by Bill Glose | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$15.00Price
