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.

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)