Sky gray, out of hope, lover gone,
I take my best sonnet
to Gordon's poem and pawn,
ask for cash, half value
on the open market: still nothing
or is it nothing still.
Gordon takes all 14 lines on consignment,
puts them on an upper shelf,
near compound miter saws,
two rows up from drills.
He refuses any better placement,
cites little rhyme, no refrain.
On impulse, I buy a worn-out Kirby cheap
to vacuum up the rain.