The ladies of the cul-de-sac,
Agreed to meet at nine;
They thought by going early,
They could be first in line.
Reluctantly, I went along,
Though garage sales weren't my bag;
Too many clothes with tiny holes,
And old furniture that sags.
The ladies said that this sale,
Was going to be unique;
They called it an "Estate Sale,"
Said the items might be neat.
A lot of people had turned out,
They were there before we came;
They pawed through items on the tables,
In ways that made me feel ashamed.
Two ladies had a tug-of-war,
Over a cloth of Irish lace;
The victor grabbed her trophy,
A look of smugness on her face.
Other ladies snatched at jewelry,
Dropping some upon the ground;
No one had the courtesy,
To pick up what had fallen down.
Manners were forgotten,
Greed reigned everywhere;
I, myself, was sickened,
Does no one even care?
Those items on the tables,
Were once somebody's treasures;
Now they're remnants of a life,
Of another's joys and pleasures.
I saw a red tricycle,
Turned over on its side;
How many years, I wondered,
Since its owner had a ride.
A painted doll, with matted hair,
Was propped up against a box;
How long ago, do you suppose,
That a child brushed its locks?
In a badly battered suitcase,
Lay what seemed a wedding dress;
A scent of dried, pressed roses
Confirmed my troubled guess.
I went home with heavy heart,
But, I also had determined ...
I did not want to ever be,
A possessive, selfish woman.
If friend or relative, alike,
Admires something that I own;
From hereon in, I plan to say,
"It's yours ... please take it home."
I'd rather see their pleasure now,
As long as I am able;
I'll have more joy from my things,
Than if displayed later on some table.