She sang in the sunshine,
absorbing new love like a hungry sponge,
as she roamed deserted aisles,
hinting of old polish and time,
listening to background oldies,
on those solitary Sundays he spent
unaware of

Passing borders of chipped purple berry plates,
smelling of pine needles and mold,
and her slipping by tarnished trinkets,
disjointed toys, and winged chairs.
Sometimes, she’d stop and lift

another person’s a dusty artifact off a shelf,
feeling as if she, herself,
remained on a dusty shelf,
waiting in the wings,
on those Sunday afternoons,
thinking of him reading scripture in his silky voice,
and happy

in his own chilliest of lands,
even when she’d held him close, kissed him,
clutched bouquets of his wilted flowers,
and watched as he drove away to a poetry reading,
already composing verse in his mind,
not looking back, his red car

too soon out of sight
As she buys a small blue quilted heart with stitched white wings
inscribed “Hope,”
and she leaves the vintage shop,
bracing against a cold rush of air,
reluctant to let go of she carefully carries
across the parking lot in a threatening rain.