You’re the estate sale at the end of my street,
halfway to empty
and full of vacant picture frames
The proudest row of abandoned kitchen knives
spread across the lawn
is you–
The things I want
between the sore hours of four and three
Really, I was never ambivalently yours
I could drink a case of you
and listen to you go on and on all night
about keeping someone else’s old family photos
in your wallet
like you had a story to run back to
Everyone was hungry for fiction at seventy-five cents apiece
But someone’s sad black dog got loose
and stayed dumb and loyal
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