Avon Calling

like the night
every broom
sweeps clean you

lie back hop-
ing for sleep
whose voice is

sweet as a
blow job so
the stars will

clutter the
darkness you
do not care

all voices
are one the
cry of your

father un-
der the ground
the cry of

your mother
in the tree
house with the

gardener they
are all the same
one cry one voice

your cry also
at the faint cry
of your child

tossing in
his new dream
of the pins the tacks

for this you
give up your life
willingly

to sleep and
for a price
and the bid of a broom