The years! Give way. Give away

Barrels of Salvation Army eternal blue skirts

Hospital clothes under a starving sky.

The years donate us to the resale shop of hard luck,

When the laughing whining young children we once were grow up into uncertain chords, struggling to fathom the mystery of stereo gossip.

When tagged antiques and broken shriveled mannequins and Lord of the Rings DVDs and Enya CDs and forgotten novels pass under the CLOSED sign at the end of the day,

Tangled wires and broken junk lie awake in our souls, too late for the night sale, we slip into the clothing racks of reality

Like dirty faced dolls and once-happy dolls, we slip away

Behind the CLOSED sign, pretending we know where we are in this resale shop.

Kind eyes glaze when they see us, our cardboard smiles, hung with tennis wire on our faces, waiting for help,

Waiting for a star, so we can escape the cracks of flimsy, collapsing hard luck tales.

Waiting to hear we are gold and not bits of resale change slipped into God’s rainy jar, out in a cold cold universe

Waiting for shelter and diamond gem statues

Blooming from this compost heap and the trash and treasureless words, we’re all stuck inside, waiting to be sorted out for a half-price destiny

Hearing only bells and registers and eternal radio songs

In the random baskets and changing shelves we are all inside

Sometimes saying goodbye and sometimes shining bright

With the hope of stars drifting like quarters across the night sky, when the night sky is just a great big hard-luck box collecting its love while God allows.