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 found 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 wasn’t a 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 a 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

for wile

–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.