Departed Time

Through the fog of departed time

the store with no name

patiently awaits today’s customers.

Cleaned and eternally pressed,

frayed by worn threads of distress and regret

stand the forever clothes of lives now past,

wanting only to make room for your company.

Posted at the entrance,

an aged mannequin in black tux

makes ready the door for your arrival,

the entrance you’ve been putting off for years.

Like chorus girls auditioning,

clothes hangers adjust their skirts,

positioning their best look.

Pant racks tilt back and forth,

causing ill matching coats to sway in giddy fashion,

tie racks to scramble in upstaging each other,

as retired shoe boxes roused by the ruckus

upset the sleeping shoes

who angrily stomp about

frightening you back onto the street.

Your entrance host holds firm,

“Guess this isn't your day,”

as the usual ghostly air of the store

lifts you skyward back toward your perch

atop the ledge and cable.