Dirty, dusty, dingy

It's not the polished showroom antiques that get me, it's the trash. The old, or not so old, weathered stuff, the stuff nobody wants and for good reason. That's the stuff I love, the stuff I get sappy and sentimental over. This stuff meant something to people once.

I remember an old bag lady who sat on this bench
all day long, like it was her job.
I remember when she died, this massive stoner minor drug dealer
going storefront to storefront announcing her passing,
because, he said, she mattered.

I have one snapshot of a memory of this place when it was open.
I was eye level with those cedar blocks, and begging my grandma to
pick a plant already because plants are boring.

This pigeon does not respect your authority.

Some dude operated this for 40 years of his life.

And somebody some years ago screwed that nozzle down.

People punched a clock and dedicated their lives
to whatever it was they did here.

This fire devastated somebody.

And someone still calls this place home.

Someone cried when they boarded up the windows.
Someone walked through echoing hallways and turned off lights for the last time.

These plants were some grandma's pet project once.

And this. I don't know what in the hell this is.