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 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). Or 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)