Monday, March 24, 2014

blood sold.

Turnstiles are attached to the doors
to the home that was sold
before you had a chance to die.
     
You pay the entrance fee
to sleep in your own bed.
          
A son, an alligator with
your mother’s eyes,
waits for your
corpse to go on sale.
               
His take
of your pension
runs the show.

Spinning turnstiles randomly
keeping you awake at night.
     
Strangers go through
your unmentionables,
taking what they want.
          
Your son guides them through the house,
telling stories
about things that were supposed
to be kept a secret.
               
Money changes hands
and more of you walks out
the door without you.

Spectators throw coins and apples
at you as offerings of good luck.
     
The turnstiles turn
day in, day out.
You collect pennies and wait until your death is paid.