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 you knees) --
comes with a free fake smile for all your dumb demands
the cordless razor that my father bought when I turned 17,
apuke-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 that recovery come to the broken ones.
to the broken ones.
to the broken ones.
for the broken ones.
(Or best offer.)