• That old door hangs on the wall
    only to block out the wind,
    paint peeling not a person notices,
    a sign no one sees.
    Ancient trinkets and clothing
    lined up in a row
    have seen better days,
    been held by better hands.

    This shop in downtown Missoula
    on the corner of new
    and nearly forgotten,
    on the edge of the railway tracks,
    awaits its next customer
    to step through
    that door and the owner
    to smile and say, “Welcome,
    have a look around, everything
    is for sale.” The customer smiles
    back as she makes her way
    through the aisles, yearning
    for such petty things, to smile,
    to hope, to have as much
    as this very shop owns.

    The shop watches, hoping
    she will take a few books,
    maybe that old can of beer
    collecting dust. Or one of the lamps,
    the one with the clouded glass
    sitting on top of the book shelf
    of phones and wires. Maybe pick
    up that box of Star Trek movies
    just across from the keyboard
    with dozens of colorful buttons.
    The small green trunk sits lonely
    beside the shelf of orange
    and pink yarn. The painting
    of a horse and her young babe.
    Next to the painting of Scotty dogs,
    one wearing a red sun hat
    and the other a rosy bandana.
    Maybe pick out an old album
    so close to the counter they beg
    to be picked,
    to be played again
    to be something again.

    Or maybe she will pick up
    that old birdhouse on
    the white shelf. Its tag reads
    $14.97, although it knows
    it is worth much less.
    Split edges, sun burnt, rough
    handiwork, the birdhouse
    knows it is not an antique
    but still asks
    to be taken,
    to leave the shop.

    When the customer buys
    nothing, leaving behind
    the trinkets,
    clothing,
    that birdhouse,
    the shop is sad,
    disappointed.
    The owner smiles, waves
    goodbye, whispers
    “Maybe next time.”