Fixer-Upper

galactic energy stored in burlap
the lining revealing names
some too long in festooned shrapnel
to translate, a dust-bin-sized
room with rolls of wrapping paper
ready for 1942.

birds twitter and tweet from rafters
cracked by winter’s steel
one room’s baskets tremble
while carburetors sludge their drips
down cascading rubber tires
all left loony-tooned with just
the wrong music playing.

red-brick dust leaves patina
on black pants
the mayor perks along ignoring
tossed remarks
how the Oz-mobile could come
to town and shimmy up the
broken elevator, urging
good witches home,
the serendipity fractured
by reality.