GARAGE SALE

  I sold her bed for a song.
 
A song of yearning like an orphan’s.
 
Or the one knives carve into bread.
 

 But the un-broken bread 
song too.
 For the song that rivers 
sing to the ferryman’s oars.
 With 

 that dread in it.
 
For a threadbare tune: garroted, 
chest-choked, cheap.
 A sparrow’s, 

 beggar’s, a foghorn’s call.
 
For the kind of song only morning 
can slap on love-stained sheets —

 that’s what I sold my mother’s 
bed for.
 The one she died in.
 Sold it
for a song.

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