All the Broken Men
I’ve never been one for thrift
stores, convalescent homes for threadbare
sentiment, moth-eaten & marinated
in a funk of cedar & decay. I smelled it
on you, there
next to a mossy outcropping of cardigans.
Li’l Cowboy, precious, porcelain
hat tipped, throwing shadow over
quiet eyes, noisy with damage.
Something about you felt
second-hand, marked down emotion
confused for clutter by a buyer unwilling
to see the dollars for the change.
Sniffing around for a better deal
wears out the soul. Aisle by aisle,
dripping indecision, monochrome splatter;
Pollock on linoleum, c. 2009.
Until I return to lay myself, barefoot
finding no settlement, just the memory
of you and the sound of bellsandslidingdoors
as I trace your outline in the dust
beginning to r e e k.