—IT’S HARD TO SLEEP WHEN THE BEDSHEETS FIGHT

 

EVERYTHING MUST GO!!

 

the day dad drinks tuesday morning under the table and strangles dawn for the thousandth time mother drives into town her hairnet looking like a jagged crossword or cobweb smoke roaming the car’s dash like marauders intent on plunder nails clicking out frenetic code on the chicklet dial buttons while willie sings elvis’ suspicious minds and not even an hour later on the filthy pawnshop window she’s taped a sign of things to come and those to go and i know not to cry or ask a question as the crowd lines up like soup kitchen inmates getting paroled bags and pillow cases spread wide open hoping to steal a bargain or find a slice of hope to re-sell