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.
