The Collector

He couldn’t believe what he’d just read.
The sign stood outside a garage: ‘Dead
peoples stuff for sale’.

Tut-tutting at the missing apostrophe,
he muttered darkly, ‘Items for me’,
and ducked inside

to delve into well-worn trousers and blouses
for souls of deceased parents and spouses
clinging to fluff

deep in pockets and stuffed up sleeves
like forgotten handkerchieves.
There were enough

to satisfy his need for angry ghosts
and sentimental spirits, a jumbled host
to usher to the other side.