Collections (03/23/2003)

A Poem From the Vault

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Collections
03/23/2003
by David C. Roberson

They’re my collections
my little obsessions,
just something to pass my time.
Volumes of TV tapes
stacked up in lines—
a place to escape in my mind.

Boxes of comics,
my friends could just vomit.
They say I just need a life.
Comics under my bed,
poly and mylar bags,
acid-free boards you can find.

Rows of good movies—
you might think it’s goofy,
the way that I dust each spine.
But something eludes me;
I need it tonight,
if only it could be defined.

They’re my collections,
just little possessions.
They become my obsessions
That take all my time.

Alone in the back,
the books I will crack.
The records are all on file.
Pour over every line,
mark what still isn’t mine,
catalogue every pile.

Something eludes me—
a masterpiece truly,
original in color.
There is no duplicate,
edition so limited,
there could never be another.

They’re just collections—
when complete, perfections.
They hear my confessions:
that I need a life.

I need connection,
a little direction,
reprieve from abjection
that causes me strife.

I get all the blame
for my obsessive ways.
There is no enormous stake.
Leave me to growl and strain,
flush away all this pain,
for I have no life to take.

The thing I don’t have,
the collection gap,
it’s shimmering into my view.
No box can contain it,
and I can’t explain it—
the thing that I needed was you.

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