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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.
(Everything Must Go!; Weakerthans)
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