by Chris Dungey
After another successful visit
to the Presbyterian rummage
sale, I have to wonder—who
in all the Congregation is built
so much like me that their castoff
coats fit perfectly, year after year?
Will he spot me one day,
out of my choir robe, wearing
his discarded garment. Hey, I had one
like that! Causing me to juggle
a Styro cup of Fellowship Hour
coffee, two cookies.
*
Some embarrassment, but if he’d like
to follow me from May through September
down habited lanes of our Township,
past Sharpie lettered poster signs
into every cul-de-sac, I’ll escort
him through a garage-sale preview
of obsolete collar tabs, earth toned
hues of shirts I’ll wear beneath
that nice herringbone suit
he should donate next year.
Category: Competition, Poetry