The Last Word On Nothing

(A poem for the evacuees. Pete and I are safe.)

At the rummage sale at the end of the world, you don’t have to pay for anything.

Strangers disgorge their closets for you: Dirty tennis shoes, used underwear, new dresses from Ann Taylor with the tags still attached. You rifle through the clothes, trying to ignore the greasy residue they leave on your fingers.

There’s a baseball cap brought back as a souvenir from Dubrovnik. A soft, chevron-patterned airplane blanket that someone wore draped over their knees on a first class flight with United Airlines. Miniature Lucky Brand jeans that could fit a three-year-old, rows of baby shoes, a polo shirt from a PGA tournament.

You did not choose well in the final minutes. You are like the man who fled his house carrying only tennis balls, the woman who filled her purse with oatmeal. 

Now people expect you to make better choices, and to be grateful: Yes! to the ugly shoes with comfortable insoles. No! to the floor-length, faux fur coat and this pair of four-inch heels studded with green rhinestones.

And yet. That coat! It’s 100 degrees out during the day, but the nights are getting chilly. Its glossy dark fur reminds you of the black bear on the highway with scorched paws, crawling on its forearms. Who knows what you will need in this new life you’re going to build. 

You take the coat. You leave the heels.