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 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

Send "Everything Must Go" Ringtone to your Cell