It was small and a bit cramped,
down thankfully solid stairs
in the basement of the church.
Thrift stores, charitable ones,
tend to inhabit basements as if
the red dress, clearly worn but
with tangoes left in her
wasn’t ready for the light of day.
And on a nearby rack is
the Army jacket, still neatly pressed
it’s buttons shiny saying I
never saw battle, the sergeants
chevron looking new on its
sleeve. They all wanted
us to give them freedom,
and this day it will be the two
small cappuccino cups soon
to sit nestled on the backseat
en route to their new home.