Yard Sale
(Castro Street, San Francisco)

Here are his
neatly folded shirts,
and here are his belts
lying in neat parallel stripes
across a crushed velvet footstool
well-worn from his many evenings
lying back into
the arms of his lover;
and there are
many small things, too,
rubber bands and buttons,
pens, paperclips and keys all
jumbled in lint-filled cigar boxes.
Where he's gone
he won't be needing
those power tools anymore,
and certainly not
his underwear, either.

I pick up a candle holder
sitting amidst the clutter,
and a fragile man
sitting on the steps,
unshaven and disheveled,
offers to let me have it
for the next time
the lights go out
if I think I might need it;
he says he's selling everything
from their life together
and moving to Shreveport.
And I think,
My God
isn't it bad enough already?

His attention wanders
and I pretend to look at socks;
they aren't really bad socks
at that, and cheap, too.
But most of this stuff
is really pretty worthless,
and I think he'll end up
giving it away--
and I think how hard it must be,
after all these years together
having to just
give it all away.