Hand-Me-Down Death Shop

Over-stock sale of past lives

lures me to the clothing

that might fit my decaying body’s finality.

The mannequin doorman dressed in black

greets me as I enter under the tinkling bell,

his eyes unflinching with their Mona Lisa stare at me,

the petals of a boutonniere sporting a plastic carnation

seeming to smile up at his painted mustache,

looking like it was drawn by a cigar’s dead end.

So much black

cleaned and pressed,

the frayed collars of their final years shouting

“look at me!”

So many shadows seem to rise

ushering my eyes to the light outside

still shining some final hope beyond,

even as the towers of dark pants sway and tilt

vying for their shot at getting attention,

followed by dead men’s hats rolling along the floor,

hurrying to escort me out,

uncanny instinct prevailing,

knowing my failing remains of life

are not ready to be indexed… not yet.