Estate Sale - Tommy Boys

It’s too early to hang our heads,

Sunken eyes set in,

Under your skin,

I’m counting ways to make a mess of things

Things I say that I don’t mean are catching up with me

In a sweet charade, an iron gate playing a fence

I might end up entering

What is space not meant to see

Hallways misinforming you, all the while

I’m clearing spaces on shelves, helps me find it

Misery, estate sale digging on a Saturday

Got sick of dining alone

It gnaws at the bones and sinews

With marrow crushing your teeth

Stuck on the outside looking in through window panes

Tangled up, solid chains

Buried in coffee cans

No rest for anyone following the grave

Makes you sick to your stomach

I might end up entering

Misery, estate sale digging on a Saturday