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The Last Crusader

It's your last chance to take note of your lookalike
before he burrows into your coupon-laden dreams
and awakens you at three AM with a disconnect.

You who were always there
when we needed a tire changed
as if your superb failures weren't enough.

And while you're at it, please clear out the plasticine figures!
They seem to have taken on a life of their own
appearing pro bono as anchors on the midday news.

A wok would give us a chance to clear our heads,
spiral out of focus.
But let's not get bogged down in depositions.

Put yourself, if you would, in her choreography,
dispensing merriment to hordes of last-minute honorees
as they scramble for the exit.

Quite intricate, wouldn't you say?
Maybe you wouldn't, but what about those waylaid orders
spilling into the street, creating havoc

glistening like plastic porkpie hats
on freshly-painted park benches?
Why does everything suddenly seem muted?

Once upon a time, you know,
whiteness like this enveloped the last crusader
as she tried to return home.