After curbing what hasn’t sold
I sit across the street and spy on people
taking what this morning was mine.
A woman and her son struggle
my dresser into a van. A metalhead
straps my mattress to his roof, caution
tape curlicuing as he revs away.
I feel like a director watching
the set of my play get broken
down before the curtain ever opened.
Nobody wants my orchid, my dog-
eared books. A middleschooler
picks up my Nirvana shirt, sniffs
the pits, measures it against his chest.
I close my eyes as he decides.