I start early in the morning sometimes,
this fading of America’s
a little tarnishing of everything
a rattle of the camel bells
hanging from the door
to the back porch.
This was at your grandma’s house,
this memory of green Formica and chrome,
the table where you ate sliced bananas
and you loved them
even though you hated
I steal memories
and I break up houses so that
women named Pansy can take everything
and sell it.
Oh, what a beautiful morning.
Your music box is gone.