An antique store’s the perfect place
To browse among the shelves
And see the past through objects
People sloughed off of themselves.
From dolls to clothes to dishes,
Chairs and glassware, mirrors, books,
The rooms are stacked with memories
Whichever way one looks.
Each item once held meaning
For its owner, likely dead,
Or living in a place with
Much less cluttering instead.
The browsers mostly look
But sometimes dig inside for cash
To cart home new-found treasure,
Once somebody else’s trash.
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