I begin by trying to clear out
the junk from my thoughts.
Imagining my yard sale of ideas–
all the cluttered one-liners
filling up the yard.

Bargaining with sticklers
to receive recognition.

Elderly neighbors I’ve never met
sifting through my antique verse,
as we try hard not to forget
what we already can’t remember.

The library books of my childhood in twin towers
fall by the wayside.
I can’t bear to part with even just one
for less than 25 cents.

My memoirs posted
on Ophelia’s blog
like the cheapest
pure perfume–
sniffed,
printed,
and then rudely rubbed in circles
between bargain-hunting thumbs
before being dropped in the nearest river
to see if the messages might float down stream.

Maybe when my garage is aired out–
when I let go of some of these hoarded
hand-me-down views,
I can finally begin to have value.