The Repossessor

Chris McCabe

sits in the chair where the Chief once sat
his smooth hands leafed in a collapse of polyester
as the dog's eyes milk sleep
old age heels her to its elbow
She will die soon The Repossessor says
not looking from the prospectus of viewings in laminate
decking The Avenues of local markets,
he knows by instinct who is dead, divorced, in arrears
nets & blinds morph shadows for that
upstairs are young bookmakers, ribbed at the ribs,
signing for careers in leisure & fitness.
The Repossessor already knows the roads where love
will thorn nests in them the fixed names of streets
where taxis purr for cash as supermarkets & Polaris
pour change into drunkenness,
The Repossessor knows that the details
of all things named moves us faster upwards
than the new naming of one unlabelled thing,
the dog coughs dust into the fender, deaf in both ears,
blind in one eye, The Repossessor shifts in his seat
calculates decreases
for the banana wine the Chief over-fermented for years
            maxed to mass volume under outdoor bricks
for the polystyrene spitfires grounded to white pips
                                  in the waist-length grass
for the outside bath filled with snow for cats
                  to tabulate with shadows
for the first boardgame in primary colours
          with no counter to win or lose play cash
for the VHS stillframes of Warner & Disney
          frozen for the hours Walt cracked in his grove of ice
for the stinkbombs brewed from suds & spices
          loaded & lodged under siblings' bunks
for the knee cicatrix stitched to diary pages
                as time healed itself to Summer.
The Repossessor pulls a black card from his pocket,
pushes it back O God, he says, as the silence
of the dog's bowels startles his concentrates
The Chief has no need of bricks now
and the market announces us.

 

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