Ode to Yard Sales

No matter how high-tech this world gets

Menopausal moms will always pull out the permanent markers

And duct tape this way on neighborhood street signs on Saturday

Mornings from 9 a.m. until everything is gone o'clock

Follow the pointed arrows straight to the driveways of the soon-to-be decluttered

A chaos of cast-offs spills from the human's organic nest

Discarded lives laid bare on asphalt

Plastic soldiers missing limbs stare with vacant eyes

At a world they no longer belong to

Fragile teacups, chipped and mismatched, huddled together like nervous party guests

A dusty rocking horse, its once-vibrant paint dulled by years