as i clean
out my father's two bedroom
apartment,
by the pool,
with a dirt yard
and concrete
patio
out back
i pull a crowd of curious neighbors
into the darkening
rooms.
take anything you want,
i'd tell them.
everything must go.
cups and saucers,
silverware,
China laced in gold.
who wants a book on fly
fishing,
a book on
diabetes, or cancer.
who here needs a gallon
jug of baby oil,
tubs of hydrogen
peroxide,
or a subscription to Good
Housekeeping.
how about a leather coat
with an alligator
stitched on the back,
three American
flags, with poles.
come on in, don't be shy.
use that box over there, fill
it up.
anyone need a wreathe
for their door
at Christmas time,
how about a glass pumpkin
that lights up?
we've got hoes and shovels.
rakes and brooms.
in the ice box
we have ice cream. four
gallons.
four different kinds.
rocky road, pralines and cream,
strawberry
and mint chip
who wants an Hawaiin shirt,
or a surfboard,
never used?
step right up, step right up.
everything must go.