Today, a big charity truck came on our street. He was religious and ignorant.
He was big and white with a baby painted on him with tattered white blanky,
and he ran over 19 of the people who were eagerly looking for artifacts
to buy for next to nothing. If not priced at next to nothing,
the estate runners would bicker and fight and squabble and shake their heads.
Some left without treasure,
terribly frustrated and angry.
Some left with pieces of junk.
The ones with junk
left with things in their hands
so they could feel
joy in raping old peoples’ things.
They tore the place apart and took things
that would icily erase another human.
Things that serve only as
acquisitions in mad rush
to avoid death and her love.
They were proud, but the truck hit them hard, lots of smooshing bodies
brightening the streets, and they won’t do the estate sales again.