He cuts glass, mirrors, sells junk
collects odds and ends, bric-a-brac,
old doors, appliances; stored outside,
inside of door-less sheds, weathered
buildings, on acres of prime land.
He lives in a run-down trailer he calls
"his castle," not selling much,
not caring much.
Once in a while he mutters something
about clearing the land, selling everything,
building a proper home, but he's been
saying that for years.
I stand and wait for glass outside a shed,
catching my reflection in a mirror shard,
wondering what I've stored in my own
Elaine P. Morgan