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