And so it goes,
the termite-infested closet doors busted,
hinges rusted,
a shiver and shake
when the truth breaks;
the skeletons come tumbling down,
a skull bounces off the coffee table,
cracks the glass top, stained brown;
a femur shatters last night’s vodka bottle,
and a rib bone, grey,
picks at the butts in the ashtray.

And there you stand
with your head in your hands,
nails chipped and broken,
and the musty smell of your towel
plugs your nostrils as it slips off;
and you ask yourself:
do I pick up the pieces and fix the closet,
or do I go outside and have a garage sale?

words by Ramon Ramirez


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