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.