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,
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, the outline to a complicated dream of dignity,
and a laugh (too loud and too long).
For a place where awkward belongs,
or a phone call from far away with a "Hi, how are you today",
and a sign that recovery come to broken ones.
Or best offer.