Curbside inheritance

(Assisted by ChatGpt) 

On bulk day came the quiet wealth parade—

Couches, fridges, lamps in twilight laid.

The rich, with homes too full to feel the lack,

Set gently used lives out by the track.

 

Through the streets came whispers, sharp and low,

Of furniture where tall hedges grow.

The poor arrived with careful steps and eyes,

Their joy half-guarded, veiled in envious surprise.

 

A rusted stove could warm a cold, bare flat.

A mattress meant no more sleeping on mats.

A cabinet, though chipped, could hold their dreams—

A place for plates, or hopes, or folded seams.

 

They called their cousins, friends, the ones who knew

That one man’s “waste” could make a home feel new.

More came to search the curbside silent store,

And took what fit behind a humble door.

Some left with nothing—for dignity or not lack,

But others found things they’d prayed for, wished they'd owned,

And now, by right of claiming, called them home.

 

Yet in small rooms across the sleeping town,

The lights now glowed where once the dark sat down.

A chair, a fridge, a table with one leg—

Were gifts, were tools, were more than cast-off dregs.

 

Now property not marked by wealth or gold,

But by the hands that use it, firm and bold.

The poor have claimed what once the rich let fall-

And in that claiming, now they own it all.