Everything must go
The Weakerthans
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
(weighsa 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.