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 of 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).
Or a place where awkward belongs,
And a sign recovery comes
To the broken ones
To the broken ones
To the broken ones
For the broken ones
(Or best offer)
