Care-Worn

strictly a department store

shopper,

I went to a garage sale

. . .

pocketful of change

and little to lose

and

charmed by the novelty

of the affair

I happen on by chance,

–and yet.

There were so many things I wanted

–from a distance–

that seemed a steal

of a deal,

and ergo: unreal

but

closer inspection

showed my emptor

its caveat

–the wear

and threadbare

of castoff-clustered

card tables

(also for sale)

the throw (away) holes

that weren’t knit,

the jeans faded white

that were so distressed,

the books without binding

that weren’t how they seam’ed,

the desk missing

drawers,

and rack

with cant

–the piles and piles of must-dusts

and junk waiting to happen

–and ragged it was,

but dogged was I,

and pig-headed perseverance led me

to treasure

where only discard existed

and while I stayed

a while

–no Starbucks calling name–

I discovered a jacket that

blazed,

a Stetson

still tagged,

and shoes so

to die for–

I hardly cared

they had walked

a different mile.