Down
the hall in the old strip center you could catch her walking:
The smell of someone’s perfume, the press of someone’s hurry
The soft slap of someone’s sandals, the flick of someone’s skirt.
Have
lunch with me in autumn, at the garden chairs and tables
Where the stores used to flourish and some bushes still do;
We’ll let the chairs tattoo diamonds on our legs, remembering.
Come
to the old strip center, where we followed her,
Ghost of all the perfect girls, rumor of all the dying malls;
Down the hallway, past the doors, beyond all the stores.
Come
when the days are colder;
Bring the lunch we used to order.
The smell of someone’s perfume, the press of someone’s hurry
The soft slap of someone’s sandals, the flick of someone’s skirt.
Where the stores used to flourish and some bushes still do;
We’ll let the chairs tattoo diamonds on our legs, remembering.
Ghost of all the perfect girls, rumor of all the dying malls;
Down the hallway, past the doors, beyond all the stores.
Bring the lunch we used to order.
It's entirely possible I've been watching too many dead mall videos, wishing I could be at a mall right now, bored in the linen section, listening to people trying to differentiate between museum decorum and creepy quiet mall wariness.
-- Chrissa
I like your title and your poem. Sad that things change and then clutter the land.
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