The Auction
Once on returning home, purse-proud and hale,
I found my choice possessions on the lawn.
An auctioneer was whipping up a sale.
I did not move to claim what was my own.
"One coat of pride, perhaps a bit threadbare;
Illusion's trinkets, splendid for the young;
Some items, miscellaneous, marked 'Fear';
The chair of honour, with a missing rung."
The spiel ran on, the sale was brief and brisk;
The bargains fell to bidders, one by one.
Hope flushed my cheekbones with a scarlet disk.
Old neighbours nudged each other at the fun.
My spirits rose each time the hammer fell,
The heart beat faster as the fat words rolled.
I left my home with unencumbered will
And all the rubbish of confusion sold.
Theodore Roethke 1908-1963
-The narrator saw his choice possessions scattered on the lawn: pride, illusions, fears, honour. He was happy that they were being sold.
-Do you share similar possessions? Any others? Would you like to see them go?
-To what extent do they confuse your life?
-What would it be like to enjoy a clean slate?
Poem via a Friko post. Thanks.
