The broken-in do many tricks,
To betray how broken they are.
Slip on the spit under a shoe,
Fall to knees raw from use.
The safe conversion of things—women to reams:
Now does little, if anything, to move a heart from the floor.
Oh, bitter misfortune, she is here to be paid;
A burn so fragile the fee becomes ashen tongue.
Purposed youth misspent on blues.
A blue of every broken hue.
Rage: they like the red on their beds;
They sleep in to forget where they’ve been left.
If they could have done so, baby,
They really should have said so then.
Broken tricks wearing thin,
To betray anything but themselves. It’s far too late for them.
Broken toys collect under bar stools,
One day they hope to find room to move.