Right now my mom is standing
inside the open door,
and all our old junk’s sitting
on tables and the floor.
She’s labeled every item
with price tags — every one!
She’s charging twenty-five cents
for my old plastic gun.
Old brooms, old hats, old rubber boots,
each one will cost a buck,
and maybe she will sell them —
that’s with a little luck.
The stationary bike sits,
not going anywhere,
and I see people driving by,
but all they do is stare.
Old pencil cases, pots and pans,
old baskets and old clamps,
old clocks, old shoes, old plasticine,
and even some old stamps.
If Mom sells only half of it,
good money she will gain,
and so I’m praying really hard
for God to stop this rain.
The Lonely Meatball 