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.

dead letters for living people

voyeur skin exhibit.

The boy drew what he saw.

     

Frail and pale,

poorly washed skin,

all the imperfections

glaring under spot light eyes.

The thin smoke

from my cigarette dictates

tendrils that outline her

in a grey and blue frame.     

The boy wants to be an artist.

His vision of beauty

and his grace of profane things

will be envisioned by his skill.

The female came to us out of expectation.

She moves and sways to

a song in her head.

A virgin, or so the legend goes,

              

Her false sense of bemusement

is only a token

that gets trades and deals

out of heroes waiting for victory.

The boy keeps on drawing

and she pretends to be smiling.

I didn’t want this to happen

but no one said a word.

dead letters for living people