You are an antique store.
Most of what is sold
is from the thirties
and forties.
There are clocks,
armoires, chairs,
a boat’s helm,
sextants, pieces of a sail,
a boatswain.
Everything is covered
in charcoal
and desert dust.
I come here
to remind myself
what to call the ocean,
to remember
the punch of the waves.
I come here
to stroll the aisles
newly stocked
with ancient.
There is always
a woman
browsing through
the piles of time.
By now,
she is much younger
than I am.
She has never left.
Whenever I look at her
the music in the store
switches to Sinatra
constantly skipping.
At the register,
she is prodigious in her attempts
to purchase
old relics
from places
she once visited
using her eyelashes
as currency
waving them up and down
in front
of the store owner,
promising all of his wishes
will come true.
The owner
insists on cash.
Without her eyelashes
her eyes look cold, naked;
tender blocks of ice.
I feel terrible for her,
a shiver crawls up
the length of my spine.
I offer her my coat,
but she refuses,
and walks away
to get lost
in the further depths
of the store
where she will be forgotten
and won’t know the difference.