The early-birds arrive before the sun;
they park their cars up on the neighbors’ grass.
We sell Grandmother’s things off, one by one.
Even before my father and I are done
labeling her furniture, en masse
the early-birds arrive, before the sun.
Her dishes are among the first things gone—
Corelle, that setting of the middle-class.
We sell Grandmother’s things off, one by one:
knitting needles, buttons, yarn, a ton
of safety pins. The things that they amass,
those early-birds, arrived before the sun.
By eight o’clock the yard is overrun.
We move her clothes, her single demitasse;
we sell Grandmother’s things off, one by one...
Father, it’s late. Remove the signs. First son,
forget the unsold still-lifes on her grass.
Forget that early-birds arrived before the sun
to cart your mother’s things off, one by one.
