Sold Off at the Pawn Shop
Anthony Hammill
March 2022
were my grandmother’s bracelets,
gold-plated jewelry, memories.
Pawnbroker’s smiles is as big as
a fourth grader who got the jackpot
candy on halloween, no candy corn of course.
“I can give you $5,000 for it all”
I don’t accept USD. I accept time.
45 days? Sold.
I’ll return back home
to scour for more memories.
Treaded the creaking attic,
a blizzard of dusty polaroids.
An old CRT television?
Only 2 days.
Anything to pay my heart’s
outstanding bills and IOUs.
Anything to preserve a memory.
Stop telling me you don’t want treatment
I don’t like it when you lie.
If I sell our still-glistening engagement ring-
We can afford another month.
You hushed me, with just the beeps of an EKG remaining.
White noise that hummed the white walls of the room.
You whispered that I abandoned and sold off our memories
to make one, tethered, molted memory last a little longer.
Delay the inevitable decay we must all face.
