semi-autobiographical oldie

75 cent candle

I remember when we were poor
and rented the top floor
of a white townhouse with
white shutters, we ruled
the yard sales around town.

I loved sifting
through all that
precious junk.

We bought used books for baby,
vintage necklaces for you, and
lots of old Disney movies for me.
Sometimes, we went to big
flea markets with old lady

wardrobes on display
and tea cups
in dusty cozies.

Sometimes, we slowly drove
in our Ford Taurus
peering after arrows on neon signs
and cluttered lawns and every
kind of eccentric house.

I loved the
faceless cloth dolls
and mothball smell.

The people were sweet
and gave me lollipops,
and once, a hotdog with
relish. I munched slowly while
you browsed through the clothes

lined up carefully
faded from wash,
old and clean.

I even bought a little candle
for 75 cents, and surprised you
with my gift back in the car.
You hugged me tight, and forgot
it in the backseat for a week

where it melted
and became an
invisible wax puddle.