Garage Sale. Saturday.I need to pay
my heart’s outstanding bills.
A cracked-up compass and a pocket watch,
some plastic daffodils.
The cutlery and coffee cups I stole from all-night restaurants,
a sense of wonder only slightly used
a year or two to haunt you in the dark.
For a phone call from far away
with a «Hi, how are you today?»,
and a sign recovery comes
to the broken ones.
A wage-slave forty-hour work week weighs
a thousand kilograms.
So bend your knees comes with a free fake smile
for all your dumb demands.
The cordless razor that my father bought
when I turned 17,
a puke-green sofa, and the outline to
a complicated dream of dignity.
For a laugh, too loud and too long.
For a place where awkward belong,
and a sign recovery comes
to the broken ones.to the broken ones.to the broken ones.
For the broken ones.
«Or Best Offer.»
