by K Weber
Crowds flood in and out of our side yard
ogling shiny things and warm stacks
and these boxes of yellowed book pages
to find a bargain somewhere deep beyond
the housewares and miscellaneous cables.
I sit in humidity and panic quietly. I’m sure
the sun is making my lithium levels toxic.
I’m sure I ruined everything with divorce
papers. I’m sure I will fall through cracks
and get stuck in red tape again and again.
Money passes my palm and then it’s some-
one else’s. I want my bed, hydration. I’ve
got nerve damage and spasms and no one’s
listening. When I was a DJ they heard every
word. Now my overheated head swims away.
Stereo speakers. Crystal pitcher. Porcelain
figurines. Yarn. Christmas garland. Index
cards. What price nostalgia? Everyone
mumbles in this swelter. My OCD tells me I
will die unless someone buys my humidifier.
I’m sure there are no more angels. They all
ascended peacefully before being dropped
off at Goodwill. You break my heart you buy
my dark confections. Everything must go. It’s
time for me to go and hide in a box of shoes.
© 2024 K Weber All rights reserved.
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