Secondhand
“Nonsense,” said the rocking horse with the bristle brush mane. “You’ll never be more than what you are.” “Mrs. Bunn says that being grows with time,” began the wooden comb, heirloom from the old country, mislabeled midcentury modern. “No. Time is being’s enemy. And Mrs. Bunn is in the dumpster now, on her way to a landfill.”