It’s almost the end of summer so the large houses
are making room for pumpkins and Christmas
and they put their least favorite things on the lawn
for us, over the tracks, to drive by and look at.
There are always cook books – many from 1950, I hope
to see one from before the war (Civil of course)
but I’m never that lucky. Instead I shoot for utility, after 1970,
when the Jello molds became used less frequently.
Our home has a fork shortage. They start out in good
company and then they start to die. They are buried in mass
unnamed graves somewhere. We cannot find them. This senseless
torture has to stop! Save the forks! Or find new ones here.
I want a pair of earrings that make me feel like
Cleopatra. I want to pay 50 cents or less. I want to
feel like Isis though, so I will spend up to 75, but no more.
I must be frugal with my extravagance; it’s getting cold out.
I will wrap myself in someone else’s blankets, stitched
with love or hate by some human hand. I want to own
the quilt my neighbor’s Nana made her two Christmases
ago. She wants to get rid of all the sameness she has
boiling over and filling her closets. I want to own
all of the memories that are not mine, that I do not deserve
to own. I want to wrap up in their relationship and pretend
the quilt was made for me. Wrap, and pretend my summer just started.