That Old Sad Story, You Know the One

He had a table as a hat, a sofa as a shirt.
He wore a TV as pants and his shoes
were white buckets. When he talked,
his voice sounded like a cat buried in dirt.

His house was a large red wagon
set up on blocks. In the yard, he grew bamboo,
opium, vases, tiny horses and a gene pool.
His neighbor complained but stopped after the man
gave him a new dresser and shared his pay-per-view.

The man worked at the local ice cream shop
and gave away his salary to support a mule
known for laying large eggs.
He used to be married to a woman
who dressed in appliances with two footstools
as shoes, but they divorced after the lawnmower died.
He was born premature, on his last leg,
with a near empty tank. They tried their best
but their son couldn’t pull through. The two grew apart.
The man tore up his sofa; the wife blew like a powder keg.
To this day, they both dream of a red lawnmower
cutting clean lines across the yard and wake up depressed.

Sometimes life throws you a handful of bent nails
or a blow dryer that doesn’t work, no matter what.
Sometimes you close your eyes and try to get through the rest
of the day like you belong somewhere. Anywhere.

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