sorting through stuff at
the Salvation Army Store.
Me and other ragpickers
searching for something special,
nothing in particular.
Buried in bins, strewn on shelves,
I’m surprised by amazing
values others gave away.
I have too many designer
purses, none I purchased new,
plus crystal and collector plates.
Not hoarding, but planning good
use of the next-to-nothing priced
merchandise that I carry home.
I’ll download stuff on Ebay, soon,
and cash in on my unused, used
Meantime, I display some objet d’art:
the chiming clock, women in gilded
kimonos on the painted vase.
And, though Jim protests that I
present him with too many,
he likes wearing a “new” silk tie.
I can’t keep up with yarn I have
collected, though most evenings
I continually crochet.
Hats, scarves, potholders, shawls, and
unpatterned odd creations. Still
I can’t pass up a donated skein.
Quality stuff among the junk,
impersonal and personal,
the latter sometimes makes me sad.
A smiling graduate, a babe
in arms, a family group,
a grandma, or a staring old man.
Castaways in pictures. How did they
lose their status? Did someone no
longer care? Do any still survive,
or will it be their final end
when a buyer sees no worth in
the faces and keeps only their frames.