The strangers, coming through.
The house seen from the road, before.
inside it? No one knew.
And no one does, and no one will.
It's bitter, but it's true.
More came today than all last year.
That tells you something, too.
Toy piano, left forgotten.
Mismatched set of bowls.
Crockpot, getting rusty now.
Two weathered barber's poles.
A copied Rembrandt, cheap on cardboard,
Done badly, but they tried.
Bought, and loved, or kept, at least.
There was a reason why.
The visitors can't sense the joy,
the pleasure that this brings,
to tacky paintings, broken toys,
and woebegotten things.
Life cycles aren't all the same.
Some outlast human lives.
"We don't need it. Really. But --"
and so the junk survives.
Estate sales and white elephants.
Garage sales. Thrift stores, too.
You shrink away. But don't deny.
Deep down inside, you knew:
Back in your darkened closet,
or beneath the attic eaves,
the crap nobody ever wanted
lurks. And grows. And breeds.