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 reads "recovery comes to the broken ones."
a wage-slave forty-hour work week
(weighs a thousand kilograms, so bend you 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 belongs,
and a sign reads "recovery comes to the broken ones."
