Junk
(Yard Sale, Fremont, CA 1983, photo by Joel Sternfeld)
The shirtless girl with windblown braid could be me,
were she standing in an Ohio driveway instead of
California, and with cornfields beyond the rows of homes
instead of desert bluffs. A plump mother with plump
baby on her hip sorts through her junk—
Snoopy doll, orange Hoover, red scooter to chase
as her brother races over concrete—
junk Mom decided they don’t need,
make room for new junks of coming years.
My hair, now, isn’t often enough windblown,
my brother works in Europe, secretively sorting
through mug shots, phone records, satellite photos,
to preempt terrorists, to warn those who don’t suspect
they are targets that their homes could soon be ash.
How easy it would be to waste a day again
in the summerness of that driveway—
climbing in the playpen til Mom says we’re too big,
naming any stuffed animals we somehow forgot to name,
pretending to pray to the Jesus painting presiding over
boxes and folding tables, skimming musty books,
spinning silent records on the turntable, dancing,
bidding all the junk goodbye.