i hate garage sales
because i always feel like
i'm pawing through
somebody's soul,

somebody's collection
of scientific american magazines
from the 1970s
stained with coffee rings,

no doubt those
of a professor or a physicist,

somebody's candle holders
covered in rust,

somebody's baby's crib
and somebody's dinner plate.

i walk the stairs
of a crooked house
that's being sold
for hardly anything

and all i can think of
is the fact that
these creaking stairs
were somebody's stairs
a long long time ago.

and people probably wonder
why my hands shake
while i look through cookbooks
and silverware, and they're right -

it's silly that
i feel like a thief
in antique stores,

but i always keep going back.