-hand-me-downs-

a permanently stained pair of pants

but she said the stain’s at the crotch

so nobody will see it,

two thread-worn, button-up sweaters

woven with images of bears

with side-pockets so shallow and weak

they couldn't hold anything and

sneakers without space inside for another

drop of sweat.

the shirt's too big and yellow as nicotine.

these items, and others, were stuffed inside
a damp corrugated box

carried by my aunt Olympia, called "Lee"

from next door, through the yards and

into our kitchen, then plopped

upon the table's oilcloth which is where we’d eat.

my brother, near three years my younger

will have to wait for his hand-me-downs.
this dank, dreary box of goods is mine. 

to be fair, my mother would soon sort through the items

and with a keen eye, preserve what was decent
while disposing of what was wretched.
this triage was performed with speed
and adroitness and the procedure with which she
trashed the un-reclaimables was noteworthy.

my sister, near three years my elder

will be driven downtown to the fancy
"Cherry & Webb".

It was a neighborhood of hand-me-downs.
my older cousins and their friends

handed the ballpark and its corner

of Bedford and Stinziano down to me and my kind.

they handed-down the spoils of Rachlin's Junkyard

waiting for us through the backyards

beyond the grapevines to the fences on Healy Street.

they handed-down their surplices and cassocks,
freshly laundered and hung inside the sacristy's closet
waiting for the young, naive new shipment of altar boys .

leaving the great department store

with a bundle containing sundries and a new dress,

her hand slipped neatly into her mother’s

and with an appearance and attitude handed-down
from someplace in the distance I could never reach,
my sister walked briskly toward the open backdoor
of her father's Buick,–– yes, that Buick, waiting at the curb
with its mighty engine running, ready to go home.

Quequechan