Late October

The neighbors lay out stuff 
on their front yard: patio furniture, 
planters of various shapes and sizes,
bowls and books and magazines; quilts,
winter coats and summer jackets. All
day long, people come by to take a look.
Someone walks away with a small shelf,
another with a desk lamp. At the age
I'm at, I've long wanted to start my own 
cleaning-out but can't seem to get to it. 
I wish I could say I don't want anything 
more, but that wouldn't be true. I had  
a toy piano in childhood, and even if I 
can't remember it well, suddenly I miss
its firetruck-red stain, its octave of 
imitation keys.  In another week, 
it will be time to turn back the clocks
an hour. I wish I knew what's ahead
besides the dark dropping earlier,
besides the leaves of the fig 
curling up like hands hiding 
their last green gashes of color.