yard sale

early in the morning
you see them, your neighbors
carrying out,
dragging out,
lifting, helping one
another with their odds
and ends.
blankets and coats,
stacking them
on their lawns.
a child's dress, pink
with ribbons, slightly torn.
a box full of men's ties,
all wide and striped,
some with golf balls
or fish
embroidered in the shine.
small tags are attached
by scotch tape
to things with prices,
or best offer
written with a smile.
the cracked mirror
is out there, again, along with
an old pair of boots,
clean and polished for just
this occasion.
a red dog leash, without a dog.
a dog dish. a dog bed.
a small crate of dog toys.
the landscape oil painting
with too much orange
in the sunset
is bright in the early sun.
it leans against a rocking
chair, just one,
next to a card table
with a taped leg.
gloves and umbrellas too.
most things worn, but some
that look nearly
unused. old magazines, stacked
and looking unread,
national geographic,
photo play, and tiger beat.
the yards are full.
they line the streets,
the vendors,
with coffee mugs in hand,
waving hello
to one another, ready to
sit out the whole day
for a dollar or two.