desks with three legs and
mounds of empty notebooks,
pens with rusted nibs and
clay hardened in the slab;
the piano works, too, sort of,
a few strings missing
the white keys stripped;
and all the plastic bags or
cardboard boxes you could need,
and we’ve skillet-lids by dozens,
though the pots and pans are
dinged and dented, we’ve
learned the truths of treasure and have
followed the precepts of glorious greed,
we have everything we need,
and riches, beyond.

strange vintage

blouses and slacks; suits and ties
worn by the dying,
and those who’ve died.
sharp-winged shirts; rayon, velour,
soaked in memories
and splotched colours,
worn thin by the dying
before they died.

scraps and thrifts

these are the scraps and thrifts of us
given softness and comfort
by prior use;
these are the rare finds
carelessly lost, the
choice picks in the bin-bottoms,
these are the memories
we’ve rediscovered, memories
we’ve built from
old wood and bent screws, and
still it is livable,
still it is lovable,
still it is sturdy and
still it is.
these are the scraps and thrifts of us
gently disassembled, inexpertly
renewed into something precious;
something that will never be cast away.