Pawnshop Midas
by Odin Roark

Pawnshop Midas they called him.

Born of the bottom line,
where a house of cards seduction
spread its naked commerce in his adorned windows.

Trumpet

Drum

Toaster

Gun

Tags tied securely, like morgue slab identities,
yesterday’s prices crossed out,
today’s prices urged for the refugee street people: la fine.

Behind counter,
man and possessions
await swing of the door.

Tinker bell jingles.

Announcement of sellers,
new members from hardship’s recruitment patrol,
their offerings determined to be tagged,
whatever he or she put in their pockets.

Pawnshop Midas
they call him.

Staring vacuously,
as unlucky minions trudge onward
along desperation’s super-highway,
a rutted dirt road for many,
entering a traveler’s Rest Area

‘til…

‘til reaching
that somewhere
that Piñata-hope of survival,
that reward seemingly just out of reach
where breath awaits permission.

Lowering reflective eyes,
the sidewalk soul relents,
occasions original cost
now colliding with memory
about to vanish.

Thrust forward,

Clutched tightly,
life’s cookie-jar treasure,
family remembrances,
today’s desperation looms sans heir,
breathes another time once more,
whispering forgiveness for a survivor’s
rules of engagement.

Squeeze,
twist,
hammer,
melt.

Eyes meet.

The plea.

“To feed the belly,“ Mr Nazerman.
“Cover the body.
Stay alive.”

Mr. Nazerman shrugs.
“One dollar.”

“But…”

Eyes meet.

Silence.

Mr Nazerman’s echo,
“One dollar”