My boss is a real estate attorney,
the director of a retirement home
and also runs a side hustle
in which he bids on the belongings
of the homes of those
who are about to move on,
or move in with their kids or down
South or wherever. Treasures no longer
important enough to fit. In Maine
survival often depends on these types
of secondary jobs: Snow ploughing to push
a little more cash into the coffers, clamming
licenses to dig out a bushel
of Casco Bay littlenecks in the summer.
At estate sales he makes, tops, a couple grand
then trashes the rest: colanders, lawn chairs,
collections of ballpoint pens and flimsy matchbooks
in old coffee cans. You can’t take it with you
remains true, and it’s easy to tell
the mortal state of the one who’s gone.
Generally speaking, the living leave behind the most.
While the dead take the delicate bone
china sugar bowls and the gold Colby signet ring,
the snowbirds have no use for the melamine.
