Their Reposessions

There were cheesecake and petits fours,
{The cakes I ate on a
French ship when I was four}
The streets were all empty and cell
Phones were mute, and hand guns were kiln
Down to make strings for lutes;

A man in a homburg said “what’s
your game,” whether I was on earth
Waiting for his highness
To collect on past- due claims;
Like repo-men with earthbound wings
I’d be sent to garnish,

And seize the things sill in boxes
Like Han Solo dolls and Batman
Masks that wouldn’t fit well;
Faces that stopped grinning too soon
To tell if they scared anyone,
I’d shout it to be heard

And tap loved one’s shoulders and hope
They felt a chill-- tug at their hems
To make them aware
That the game they’re playing is fixed;
Like spayed dogs or dyslexic gods
Who can chant palindromes

So their losses turn into wins;
I’d be a second-class angel
Like Clarence once mimed for
George in It’s a Wonderful life;
Like Paul Revere’s horse rode by lights
In the North Church calling;

“The reaper’s coming! The reaper’s coming!”
“The grim reaper’s coming at last!”
I’d waddle through with wings
Tied to my back all tight and cranked
Hard like Jacks-in-the-box pop out
As maniacal clowns;

I’d tap harder and mouth the lips
Pursed to warn them to get out more;
To take dolls and masks from
Minty conditions sequestered
So long to be worn to be fit
Like the days they were born.