estate sale

We show up late and get in line

the man before us explains 

he is the brother, 

"Oh you the brother of the former owner."

The doorman says,

And the man nods,

I turn away,

We are here to buy your dead brother's things.

There a wait-list, we are on it,

But the garage is open in the back.

Things you learn about people 

you'll never meet, buying the stuff

they left behind, with people we just met.

We discuss them like we knew them,

As we'll know their things.

She was a poet and gardener.

He a carpenter and grandfather.

I wish the brother was here 

to hear how we revere them and their things.

It's our turn in the house,

it smells like pee but that's where

the vinyl was, so is the brother.

"I'm sorry" I bleep as I scuttle by,

The brother points to an album in my arms,

"That was a gift, have you heard it?"

"No...just liked the cover."

I blush. I pay the cashier.

Money makes it feel transactional.

Money sanitizes the truth.

We are just soldiers slipping boots off a deadman,

Neanderthals fighting over the good cave,

Proudly holding up objects now ours,

back to our lives and our homes,

The former owners have not.