Yard Sales

 
There’s something sad about a yard sale.
Even the cardboard sign is forlorn, tacked
lopsided to a telephone pole,
directing scavengers to the carcass,
where they rip and tear, search
for vitals. Once-precious relics strewn atop
folding tables convey certainty that
anything loved may one day
be unwelcome, relegated
to the dark, swaddled in dust. It’s where
I expect to find myself someday,
in a bargain bin
scratching foolscap with a fountain pen,
crafting poems for neighbors
who want nothing more
than popcorn with their sitcoms.




 
A Lesson from My Dogs

 
When I encounter
well-meaning friends
who boast of success,
offer career advice, suggest
alternatives to writing,
I ask my dogs,
the reasons why.
 
Do you ever worry, I say,
what other dogs think, wonder
which ones growl behind
your back? Do you crave
better chew toys, designer food
from a can? Ever wish
you were something else?
 
They pant and wag till
I snap on leashes,
open the door, then
they sprint outside,
towing me behind.
 
There’s a whiff of something
on the breeze;
they must investigate,
sniff and run,
be what they were meant to be. ​