Saturday 8am-noon
I’ve decided to hold
my estate sale before
I die just to take bets
on who might buy
what. The old movie
buff down the block
who’ll snatch my autographed
photo of the Three Stooges,
Mrs. Johnston, — the lady
next store with the three
Jack Russell terriers
that never stop yipping—
I’m sure she’ll grab
that velvet Elvis
hung in the den.
And, course, there’s Frank
who runs the hardware store.
He’ll just salivate over my
Atari cartridge that plays Pong
and my wall-mounted Billy Bass.
Some old biddy from across town
will show up two hours early
and won’t offer me a price
on my five unopened packages
of 100- watt, incandescent light bulbs
but will try to argue me down
when I try to charge her a dollar,
and the old guy from who-knows-where
stopping at his sixth sale of the morning,
He’ll rummage though my ten-cent box
trying to ferret out a Honus Wagner
rookie card, or first edition of Moby Dick.
But yea, little do you all know
how I am quietly adding up
my change, keeping tabs,
balancing accounts, all
toward buying my casket
on the lay-away plan,
with the Caveat Emptor
on my grave marker
that all sales are final
and etched in stone.
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