House of Broken People

It’s a yard sale shopper’s paradise With hidden treasures stashed amid the clutter. Like fine bone china chipped about the edges. It’s an heirloom set with all the pieces krazy-glued together, Its approximation of perfection Gives one reason to excuse the others’ faults. Some have half their stuff in storage. Some have all their dreams in hock. There’s a common lock, but no one has the key. We continue swapping recipes and gossip just the same. We’re living in the House of Broken People. In the House of Broken People Every player has a role. There’s no method in the acting, Only madness in the soul. It’s a slum dog renter’s penthouse view, With quotations from Bukowski for graffiti. At night we leave a light on in the hall. There’s a framed reminder on the wall, Says, “ALL OUR FRUIT IS LOCAL” In other words, it pays to be impartial. As each must find his own amusement, Each must put his mind to use. It’s a fragile truce that holds the peace together. A deck of jokers stacked upon a whiskey bottle’s neck. We’re living in the House of Broken People In the House of Broken People Every bedroom has a door, Each with keyholes made for peeping, But we’ve seen it all before. One more postcard from The House of Broken People.