I Have Three Shoes and Only Two Feet

tuesday morning greets cracked sink
like an oil painting for stories of fathers
this is a stale water audience
yearly in the pines, i matter
slowly to a viennese guilty box
snuffed by films without humor
my eyes cannot stay open
laughable with a jamaican nod
without looking, my neck is a foot rest
a trail for the faithless workforce to follow
mistaken hands that screw too often
worried by the voice of frayed generations
heaped like clothes on the floor
we give this all to the grandfathers to sort