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the yard sale at the animal shelter

A coffee cup with "MOM" above a painted apple pie.
A larger plastic cup, the type
you get at convenience stores, can fill
for free "ANYONE CAN BE A FATHER"
­and plaques and samplers praising
the arts of Love and Home and God
among the spoons and jigsaw puzzles,
microwaves and jars,
mirrors and books,
bright anonymous flotsam from
the wreck of the Yesterday.

One of the women working there
carries out a kitten.
"Look, it's missing part of its foot.
I don't know if the mother
ate it, or it's a birth defect."
She puts it down.
"See, it can move though,"
and it takes a couple of clumsy steps
in the terrifying sunlight.
"It's already got a home."

bar-silverplate.gif:

old people having sex

It's not a pretty picture.

But it gets worse:
while we pump and shove our time
into our jobs and into
the Social Security well,
those bastards are spending
our dollars and their days!
Rolling and panting and giggling
behind drawn curtains
in retirement villages,
or gently rocking
their Winnebagos
in the nights
of drier climates.

Think of that at your desk:
you'll find you can sharpen
your pencil with your teeth.

Still, as I get greyer
and my forehead gets taller
each year (from thought),
I find myself wondering
who will pay for me.
I know what they'll be buying.

 


 

 

 

 


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