Estate Sale 

by Kyle Torti

Signs posted on corners read nine to twelve; at seven scavengers descend to claim their positions.

Treasure hunters salivating, circling, for The Deceased’s precious possessions.

Cheap plastic tables stand end to end, loaded with handpicked pieces of fine jewelry,

dishes and batteries, lamps and holiday decorations, lines of unruly possessions.

Rooms buzz with bodies tracing disjointed patterns, collecting objects to pollinate their homes

oozing with liquid gold for the perished Queen, in the combs of her possessions.

Clear tape and a closed-door block the tunnel to a room labeled “off limits, nothing for sale” yet

the knob still jiggles with the curiosity of a stray mole, as it sightlessly covets possessions.

An inevitable stillness blankets the garage, separates it from the house. Angels chorus to

lift the thin veil of heaven and earth from the TV speakers, crying, “renounce your possessions”.

Clicking footsteps on tile, they echoed against the bare walls

emptiness is complete when it can be heard, unpadded by all possessions.

A wooden tortoise rests forgotten by the invaders, resisting dust by the fireplace

a creature who lives and dies with only the home he made, free of tired lace possessions.