You cast me off like a
moth eaten sweater,
now I’m a hand me down.
I don’t even fit you anymore.
Maybe I’ll be used by another,
or one who needs me,
needs something already worn,
comfortable, though frayed.
Although I’m secondhand,
I am a treasure,
even if buried in a thrift store,
lost in bins of the fashionable,
waiting to be found
and appreciated.

M. Zane McClellan

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