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Garage Sale

I wonder if they know
What parts of the bodies I
Left around for people to find
As they scurry about my
Garage sale like bone pickers.

In the corner, next to my old
Winter coat there is a hand.
It belonged to my mother.
She was a sorceress who
Only used it on Sundays
To tie my tie before church
And to touch
My shoulder when I cried.

The people who come here
Casually look around,
Feigning disinterest
But eventually draw near to
Handle all of the leavings
Of my former skins of former
Selves, now shed,
Displayed proudly on a table.
Their essence captured
In the details of an
Ornamental box

Or in an old pair of shoes.
Nobody notices but
One still has a foot
In it.  I used it to
Walk away from my parents
For many years
And to return long
Before they disappeared
Into death’s gentle grip.

Their memories fell
Like snowflakes
Into my old box of photos,
Forever motionless,
Stopped momentarily….
For a smile or
A bit of family mischief before
They were captured
And died slowly in this box,
Stirring like butterflies,
Disheveled, helpless
Against time.

A young man keeps 
Going back to my chess set.
Noticing it has a chipped piece,
He puts his tongue
Against his cheek then
Offers me half what it’s worth.
I want to point down to his
Feet, to the torso under the table.
It used to belong to me.

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