Unpacking. Still. Also trying to discern if we really did stumble upon a very small and as yet undiscovered black hole en route, or if the still-MIA sundries are tucked away in some unlikely and improperly labeled box.
“Have you seen…?” has been a constant refrain ’round these parts, along with lots of mild cursing. But then we find ourselves marveling at the fantastic weather on our fantastic box repository back deck, and it all seems very worthwhile.
If you have ever moved across the country, you know how this goes.
Please enjoy this, which has been stuck in my head since the Texas panhandle (along with Nanci’s cheerful voice chirping, “Nobody likes to be too close to Lubbock!” from some live album or another):
And, if you’re still unsatisfied by your visit here today, read this, which captivated me somewhere in East Tennessee (thank you, public radio!):
Ode to the Yard Sale
by Gary SotoA toaster,
A plate
Of pennies,
A plastic rose
Staring up
To the sky.
It’s Saturday
And two friends,
Merchants of
The salvageable heart,
Are throwing
Things onto
The front lawn –
A couch, a beanbag,
A table to clip
Poodles on,
Drawers of
Potato mashers,
Spoons, knives
That signaled
To the moon
For help.
Rent is due
It’s somewhere
On the lawn,
Somewhere among
The shirts we’ve
Looked good in,
Taken off before
We snuggled up
To breasts
That almost made
Us gods.
It’ll be a good
Day, because
There’s much
To sell,
And the pitcher
Of water
Blue in the shade,
Clear in the
Light, with
The much-handled
Scotch the color
Of leaves
Falling at our
Shoes, will
Get us through
The afternoon
Rush of old
Ladies, young women
On their way
To becoming nurses,
Bachelors of
The twice-dipped
Tea bag. It’s an eager day:
Wind in the trees,
Laughter of
Children behind
Fences. Surely
People will arrive
With handbags
And wallets,
To open up coffee
Pots and look
In, weigh pans
In each hand,
And prop hats
On their heads
And ask, “How do
I look?” (foolish
To most,
Beautiful to us).
And so they
Come, poking
At the clothes,
Lifting salt
And pepper shakers
For their tiny music,
Thumbing through
Old magazines
For someone
They know,
As we sit with
Our drinks
And grow sad
That the ashtray
Has been sold,
A lamp, a pillow,
The fry pans
That were action
Packed when
We cooked, those things
We threw so much
Love on, day
After day,
Sure they would mean something
When it came
To this.
