Poems are like a yard sale
Stretching down 400 miles of interstate
through quaint and crumbly grandeur

I place a pair of off white heels 
next to a microwave
and a 30s magazine catches me up
and winds up several spools of my minutes

This giant bowl I set here for you
Your name is written all over it
and the stories this napkin holder has to tell
about particular conversations held long ago

I can almost see the tears, the hands that dried the plates
That pulled the beans
That repaired the fence
That hugged the children

I can’t help but hope you bring some of it home

and as I pick through each object
I silently pray I find myself
Crouching under a sun hat 
in prickly heat
turning everything to dust