At the Antique Mall

By Robert Demaree

At the antique mall, a reclaimed schoolhouse
Abandoned not all that long ago:
In the restroom graffiti remain intact,
Unkind words and pictures about someone’s daughter,
Like a fresco in the villa of the Vettii,
Released from Pompeian ash
By archeology’s delicate hammer,
For the perusal of unintended viewers.

At the antique mall, a sense of trespass amid the clutter:
Someone’s forebears in daguerreotype,
Private notes on postcards, monogrammed gravy ladles.
Dealers in jogging suits move wares from shelf to shelf:
Which of them has dealt with a niece
Whose grief was less than she had planned,
Which of them a receiver of stolen goods?
On the closed-circuit monitor
Graying floorwalkers lurk with genial suspicion,
Scanning long tables of memories accepted on consignment.