It was always
in cluttered antique shops
that my wife and I could get our fill
of nostalgia: where a 100-year-old typewriter
may sit atop a 1950s television set;
or the odd, single oar with a crack
down its middle would stand lonely in a corner;
or ancient looking, black leather,
women’s ankle boots out of place
in a worn-out sewing basket;
or a dreamcatcher hanging from a nail
high against the wall, heavy with
all the nightmares caught;
or a rusting revolver sticking out
from under a heavily torn, worn,
yet still-ready-to-preach-from bible;
or a hardened leather casing with yellowing die
sitting inside, placed randomly
on a nondescript guitar; or just the face of
a grandfather clock, frozen at 10:32,
leaning against the wall on the floor;
or the odd Hebrew letters scrolled across
a wooden tablet; or a globe so old
half the countries of the world
hadn’t been born yet; or rusting tools
like hammers, and pliers, and vice grips
from a century or more, ago.
Now, however,
we can get almost the same sense just by looking
at the myriad of seemingly haphazardly
chosen and placed tattoos on some men
and women next to us on a sunny day at the beach.
