Yard Sale
The renters bring out their greasy table,
End of the month again: It sags,
Weighted and warped like them, unable
To hold much more than glasses and rags.
Old clothes and rusty tools compete
For space with magazines they stole
From garbage bins behind our street;
Each shoe reveals a run-down sole.
A few come by, inspect, and leave,
Almost always with empty hands.
But when, at sundown, all things cleave
To slanted light, and when it lands
So rubber, glass, and metal glint—
And for a moment make you squint—
You'll see our neighbors bathed in gold
As if their worth cannot be sold.
End of the month again: It sags,
Weighted and warped like them, unable
To hold much more than glasses and rags.
Old clothes and rusty tools compete
For space with magazines they stole
From garbage bins behind our street;
Each shoe reveals a run-down sole.
A few come by, inspect, and leave,
Almost always with empty hands.
But when, at sundown, all things cleave
To slanted light, and when it lands
So rubber, glass, and metal glint—
And for a moment make you squint—
You'll see our neighbors bathed in gold
As if their worth cannot be sold.
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Disclaimer
We do not accept unsolicited submissions. American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2016 "Yard Sale," by Matthew Brennan, from One Life, (Lamar University Literary Press, 2016). Poem reprinted by permission of Matthew Brennan and the publisher. Introduction copyright © 2024 by The Poetry Foundation.