Bargain Hunters

On the eve of my twenty-third birthday

I sat on my roof, drinking apple juice

in a wine glass when out of the blue

two old women happened by. Neither spoke

at first, but as they drifted up the street,

toward the scraps of a day-old garage sale,

the two of them began to sing.

What they sang is a mystery to me—

they were too far away to hear the words or tune.

But into that great feast they went,

their fingers fiddling every silent clock,

every size six heel, every Stephen King book.

Their singing was a blend of retirement homes

and the blue croon of the moon that reflected

off of the pavement of the driveway.

Were these the angels that I had waited for

so long? I wanted to believe that they had

picked out a pink fiber scarf just for me.

But as they were tinkering with the trinkets,

the woman in the purple and red coat peered up

at the roof and scuttled away like the stars

on the ocean when a ship comes in.