On Saturdays, she goes the rounds
with shopping bags in hand. She’ll rescue
former treasures left behind—
some lace, a wooly shawl, a shirt

perhaps too small but almost new.
A find—a red fedora, brim
askew, the feather brave. A bag
of mottled pears, a steak too near

the sell-by date. She’ll gather not
because she must eat crumbs or take
whatever comes, or lick the final
jelly from the jar and not

because somebody somewhere may
be starving. Gather, glean—to keep
or give away—because something
in this skirt, that sequined vest,

those purple gloves, is still alive.


© by Diane Lee Moomey.
Used here with the author’s permission.