I like the last inch of coffee gone cold, which is proof I stayed.
I like a bruised pear. I like the second-best chair.
I like a record with a scuff you can hear on the intro
and never again, so that every listen begins with an apology.

I like the dog nobody bought. Six months in the case,
the sign in the window, the price crossed out and written smaller.
He was the naughtiest animal I ever met and he loved me stupidly
and he cost less than he did in September.

I like the stuff you throw a tarp over. I like a chipped mug
more than a whole one, because a whole one hasn't been used yet.
I like the plant that isn't doing well and hasn't quit.
I like a rope still tied to a piling after the thing has gone.

I like the parts of a song where nobody is singing.
I like the part of the river where nobody stops.
I like the strawberry stand two doors down from the bread line,
both of them open, neither of them mentioning it.

I like the fact that a truck can idle for three years
and the warmest square of pavement in February
is a thing it makes by accident, for whoever gets there first.

I like a mistake that's been on the books so long
nobody remembers making it. I like an unrounded number.
I like the guy who tells you exactly what fifty dollars buys
and doesn't ask for fifty-one.

I like a bear worn thin in the four places I have held him.
I like anything that's been held that long.

Here is what I have worked out, and it took forty years:
the discount is not a verdict.
The market is a room where people shout what they want today.
It has never once been asked what a thing is worth.

So: to the cold cup, the bruised fruit, the crossed-out sign,
the rope, the plant, the pavement, the marked-down dog.
To everything that was passed over by everyone who walked in first.

I got here late. I got the whole estate.