In tangled, well-worn threadbare mess

Heaters piled alongside harpied phone

Tumbled record players fumble to caress

Rusted acetylene tanks, open lying prone

My host a filthy leather recliner

Lying coated on the dusty slip wood floor

Packed next to mismatched broken china

Testament to my own vigor

I am not a flea market pawn

Nor white trash savior immune to scorn

My $3 sandals, books reshorn, worn

Waiting patiently to be borne

Home

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