The Altos’ Garage Sale

  A widow collects her life,   and the evidence of her spouse’s,          yet stacks of flannel shirts   remain, sleeves crossed in contemplation,   wingtipped shoes curved with the proof          of feet. From cartons cobwebbed in corners,   I dislodge gravy-stained linens from meals  forgotten, tangled wind chimes and their melancholy          song. Cradled among impossibly   narrow T-shirts, jeans paved with patches:    my vibrator swaddled           like a mummified baby.   I recognize it, of course.   Remember the afternoon in the drug store  ...

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