Garage Sale

Unpopped kernels
wedged in cracks
Match sticks, dust bunnies, a penny or two

Of all the pockets that sat on it
Each one smashed the feather fluff
And left their mark as tiny dips
Like the worn spots on the steps
of St. Paul’s cathedral

Don’t jump on the couch
Crunch the pillow sideways
Spill that Orange Crush
Or drip lime sticked popsicles

And then one day,
it didn’t matter
so much.

He took the couch.
Out the door,
Speeding away
in his pickup truck

I might have sucked more popsicles
during Oprah’s summer show.
Jumped on the cushions— a madwoman
Tossed the crimson downy
squares to the floor
And flopped myself into the luscious pile
Like a plump little pig
in a soup of mud

Perhaps his lady will lift the cushion,
Unveil the treasures,
Gather them up,
Pop them up,
with blue bonnet on it
and salt free salt

They’ll cuddle on the couch
and watch Doctor Phil
during commercials
speaking of windfalls
and good fortune.