Free Entry 1, Week 5

As if to harp: Please return the wicker patio set,
mold and all, would hurt my patient feelings.
Or to sergent out all your belongings only to roll
call them back falls in the rut of my hammock. I sop up
the information of your pleasantries like a cruller
sops up coffee. And in the Florida heat as I tote
spoons, one from every state and then some, I begin
to dread the burn of silver on my fingertips.
You are mistaken about your possessions, they go
after you. Instead you perch with pen in hand
to mark lamp, dish, and screwdriver with familial
letter. The neighbors take in the scene from the edge
of the driveway, hovering like yard sale scavengers,
eyeing the racks of evening gowns sailing from stoop
to backseat. Even if two weeks later you ask for it all
back, after results of minor surgery, I find nothing useful
in your blunder. So as I haul that same broken down,
Off-white wicker chair that you said once cradled
the plump body of my mother, back up the stoop,
into the now naked living room of your misfortunes,
I try to forget that mason jar of silver forming in my chest.