Yard Sale

"There is no object so foul that intense light will not make
beautiful."
— Emerson, Nature

The renters bring out their greasy table,

End of the month again: It sags,

Weighted and warped like them, unable

To hold much more than glasses and rags.

Old clothes and rusty tools compete

For space with magazines they stole

From garbage bins behind our street;

Each shoe reveals a run-down sole.

A few come by, inspect, and leave,

Almost always with empty hands.

But when, at sundown, all things cleave

To slanted light, and when it lands

So rubber, glass, and metal glint—

And for a moment make you squint—

You'll see our neighbors bathed in gold

As if their worth cannot be sold.