Thrift

We go to the store with bags of worn or unused
apparel— trousers that keep shrinking a few inches
more above the ankle after each wash, shoes a rich 
friend liked to send every summer after yet another 
vacation to exotic places but which we never quite 
knew where to wear. It's the same thrift store 
we've been going to for the last twenty-some years, 
where we found our coffee table— marveling at
the swirls in the solid oak surface, discounting 
the few spots of water damage that must have been
enough reason for its donation. We try to remind
ourselves: before buying anything new, consider
need. And after, consider what could go 
into recirculation. But even in the aisles of 
Children's Hospital of the King's Daughters,
there is no lack of desire. In front of a narrow
mirror by the back wall, a woman has laid a blouse 
with a vintage collar across her chest. The older 
woman next to her says Just feel that fabric— 
isn't it a dream? We're surrounded by so much 
discarded beauty: crinkled cotton, bookends 
with painted ducks; beaded sheaths, shawls, 
sun bonnets, the tiniest pink booties.