The weekend is not long enough to complain
of having too much fun.
We need to fill our house with junk.
Drove into the wilderness and parked
on a verdant suburban hill. Arrived
early but stood in line. Hoarders
stacked their bags with
postcards and pictures and
I just had to buy the binoculars
for 35 and you said 35?
Hey, the family is dead and
I was a kid in the candy
aisle. I wanted to store
my free time closer to me
so we got second breakfast
at the Aspinwall Riverfront
Park and I utilized the specs
to pull a goose in the
river close to me! Spectacle
in the monotony!
Rest is underrated and–
we’re critical– undeserved
but I’m putting the hours in.
Raking through thrift stores
of junk and sink-drain art. No
one wants to buy any of this
but birdcage carts fill fast.
Bought a backpack at
the Morningside yard
market trudging through
sun, red forehead. Scammed
again by a hamburger
helper (you said it’s
called a burger basket)
but I tried and couldn’t
use it on the gas grill
in moaning distance
of whatever zombies
were in my neighborhood
today, and I ascended
four steps to get
a better view
to find nothing in our
alleys but laughter
and I peered through
magnifications
to leave my eyes
empty-handed
but satisfied,
this being
the way
to spend.
(originally published in Stickman Review, Fall 2022)