SECONDHAND

 

I suppose that I should have been more grateful

for the everyday lessons in transience,

the irrefutable truth that nothing in this life

is ever ours to begin with, only on loan,

and that the end result of all this accumulation

is, inevitably, dispersal. But when you're a kid,

and coolness matters most, the tell-tale uniform

of the poor weighs upon your shoulders

and limbs, the shushing sound of those shapeless

polyester pants, as if you were being erased,

your movements tentative, your steps slightly out of sync.

Nothing ever seemed to fit quite right,

as my own form seemed ill-suited for its design,

growing up and out, lumbering from room

to quiet room, from one pulse of air to another.

But the dog-eared books, yellowing already,

the worn and scuffed record albums

handed down from an older brother or sister

were always a blessing, tangible portals

to a thousand different realms, lives both mysterious

and mundane, which I could add to my own,

wandering through it all unscathed.

The teachers, with few exceptions, took

little notice, handed me down to the next level

of learning, and the next. My mother, too,

seemed already worn out with it all,

hardly interested in raising any of us, eager

to pass us down to a world hovering between

ambivalence and constant danger.

But we had been studying, albeit humbly,

unnoticed, shifting in and out of view, letting go

again and again. We would be ready.