Recycling Time
by Odin Roark

Some call them
Malls of another kind,
Windows into past lives,
Even Good Will,
That forgotten and passed on residue
Awaiting a needy rebirth

Dressed in maître d' attire,
A retired one-armed dummy at the door,
Wearing a joker’s smile,
His Mona Lisa eyes focused solely on us,
Seems forever extending his hand.

Is it giver-hubris or empathy,
Compassion or insult,
Compelling such commerce?

We rummage through these ghost threads
Once adorning the satisfied,
Who, living their levitational lives,
Consuming every attachment they could.

As…

We the middle-class pan-handlers
Once of outstretched hands ourselves,
Patronizing the boss who
Withheld a raise,
Reduced a commission,
Forgot a Christmas bonus,
Talked of a retirement watch,
Never given.

Begets such reality-recall
We keep buried
Beneath our threadbare attire
And frayed collars.

And on we shop.

Meandering amid racks of perfectly creased pants,
Fresh cleaned shirts,
Sweaters,
And coats,
Their symmetry of military allegiance
As if greeting a Head of State.

How difficult among such discarded finery,
To stumble upon a fit,
A color,
That just-right look
For self-respect’s primary need.

We wonder if
Such an array of death’s costumed sadness,
Bequeaths of excess throwaways,
A textile graveyard of estate tax deductions.
Is destined as
Ghost garbs for the needy,
Attempted forgiveness for the guilty,
Or merely a remnant parade
Of today’s ever-temporary décor and cover-up,
Awaiting another recycling of time
To maybe become a more meaningful kind of…

Memorial?

Perhaps.