I ran through a yard sale this morning,
Every six months my neighborhood has one,
Even in the pandemic,
Those with too much and an entrepreneurial spirit
Drag their unwanted onto their driveways,
Beach chairs in the garage, and
All the efemera of their lives staged for purchase.
There was the young hipster couple across the street,
The must have had to much plastic in their home,
The kid picnic table, a faded orange and blue
Was probably experiencing another yard sale,
For it looked as if it might have faded over the years.
Down the street,
The guy with the vanity plate that I can’t figure out
Placed his tables and shelves out the night before,
Everything organized and tagged as if
It was from an antique store or a museum’s back room.
Around the corner were the die hards,
They trot their racks of old clothes out each time
Never seeming to sell anything, but their are there,
Hover over their threads, rearranging the racks,
Even sneaking some dresses back into the house.
On the last street is the neighborhood slum lord
A woman of quality, a generous comment for sure,
Represented by the her department store display of cheap jewelry,
Used bath mats, and scorn that comes for free.
My pace picked up there.
My run-by shopping was over,
I live in a small neighborhood,
The run took me out to the wilds of over places,
Sadly, I realized out there on my own
That I that’s exactly where I am, on my own.
I know my neighbors for what they sell,
Not who they are.