Our Lady of Perpetual Garage Sale
hosts Saturday morning strangers
who file past the bashed mailbox
and rarely notice the pyracantha
covering her front door or the
sagging gutters or the ever-present
Christmas-light crosses on her roof.
I’m never sure if this low-pitched
roof pitch is for me or if she’s
trying to get God’s attention
with a landing pad or an S.O.S.
or a simple hello. Or if she wants
to tell aliens that one of them
became one of us and lit his own
cross with glistening red
for people who pile junk in carports
and send unanswered messages
to buyers and neighbors and gods.