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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 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 From Lyrics Mania