Again and again, the kitchen in our church
becomes an obstacle of plastic bags
filled with clothes -- the first owners dead, moved, slimmed-down, fattened up, no longer pregnant.
Or toys. Or DVD's. Or China.
All in excellent shape.
They're in excellent shape because they were given with love.
Unlike the stuff one gives to the thrift shop
where the recipients are strangers.
My friends' kids
get glutted with books I've reviewed
books I've liked.
(Why share what was hated?)
When I visit them they greet me with eyes open
look behind my back for the latest
second-hand-but-first-to-them book.
I have one acquaintance, though...
very rich. A clothes horse.
She brings me clothes.
haute couture, high-end....rarely-worn.
She drops them at my gate
without asking.
without stopping to chat.
I don't know the woman.
But sometime in the past,
she determined to give me her hand-me-downs
determined to upgrade my style.
I wear jumper dresses and jeans,
not stylish for someone not yet an old lady:
this bothers her.
Should one wear clothes from such a giver?
Second-hands. . .hand-me-downs. . .
Ideally, such giving should be communal, should be born from love.
And yet I have worn them.
Because they were beautiful
and one like me could not afford them.
She smiles when I meet her at some hoopla,
glad I'm wearing her gift.
But those smiles. . .
they kill me little by little.
The day will come when I will be strong enough
Not to accept her cast-offs
lying at my gate.
becomes an obstacle of plastic bags
filled with clothes -- the first owners dead, moved, slimmed-down, fattened up, no longer pregnant.
Or toys. Or DVD's. Or China.
All in excellent shape.
They're in excellent shape because they were given with love.
Unlike the stuff one gives to the thrift shop
where the recipients are strangers.
My friends' kids
get glutted with books I've reviewed
books I've liked.
(Why share what was hated?)
When I visit them they greet me with eyes open
look behind my back for the latest
second-hand-but-first-to-them book.
I have one acquaintance, though...
very rich. A clothes horse.
She brings me clothes.
haute couture, high-end....rarely-worn.
She drops them at my gate
without asking.
without stopping to chat.
I don't know the woman.
But sometime in the past,
she determined to give me her hand-me-downs
determined to upgrade my style.
I wear jumper dresses and jeans,
not stylish for someone not yet an old lady:
this bothers her.
Should one wear clothes from such a giver?
Second-hands. . .hand-me-downs. . .
Ideally, such giving should be communal, should be born from love.
And yet I have worn them.
Because they were beautiful
and one like me could not afford them.
She smiles when I meet her at some hoopla,
glad I'm wearing her gift.
But those smiles. . .
they kill me little by little.
The day will come when I will be strong enough
Not to accept her cast-offs
lying at my gate.
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