Saturday Morning in a Classmate's Garage

My mother and I watched my sister
spring ahead, giggling as she ran up
the paved driveway like a puppy recognizing
the sound of its owner scraping leftovers
onto the ground. She pounced playfully
on Barbie and Skipper while mother and I,
a pair of vultures, swooped.
I preyed on books, and Mother tore into
masses of worn-through blue jeans and faded
T-shirts, searching through carcasses
piled high on card tables and concrete.
At the pay table, I stood watching my feet
shuffle as a familiar woman and girl pulled
tiny squares of masking tape
from our pickings, all the while making
small talk with my mother and me,
pretending the following day
we wouldn't be wearing their leftovers,
their names branding our bodies
like cattle.