COLLECTOR
 
                                   a nod to Lars Gustafsson
 
 
His glasses bear down
on children’s books, first editions
 
with prized illustrations in color. What pleasure,
touching the edges
 
of those pages, smell of old paper
on fingertips—oh the air
 
will take him
where he needs to go. Arthur’s blue stockings
 
are louder than any call
from outside the walls. The sword
 
comes out like a splinter.     Clamped together
by two red moons on its fuselage,
 
a tiny Japanese Zero
is ready to fly from the mantle.
 
His mother asks about work
and puts the tray of food on his lap.
 
She can see that he’s flying hard, this warrior
with so many lives on his mind.
 
The old patients at the VA
enjoy his talk
 
while he guides them down the hall,
his unhurried way of listening
 
to their histories and gripes, this man
who places their lungs,
 
their bones, against the x ray plates.
He’ll see them in battle tonight.

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