I’m tired of old things,
creeping out at me from the dark corners of the room.
Mouse droppings piled in crevices of antique ceramics,
more natural than the natural decay of rusting iron horseshoes,
I laugh at our efforts in battle,
cringe at the disorder;
in piles of petticoats, scythes, and pineapple bedposts, welcoming
visitors at our doorstep;
a pay phone stands obsolete,
a line of ghosts waiting to twirl their fingers around the tethered cord,
scrutinized by a gentleman, swaying on a squeaky rocking chair.
His antique shop sits behind him
hiding treasures from the world until time passes them on to his kin.
His efforts are not lost, like ours,
tucked in vast echoing rooms behind glass cases.
We work for preservation, as he does,
but the same items in our care
meet an untimely end, whether by rust or decayed memory.
He remembers the name of every ghost.