Death Is Always On Sale Poem by Patti Masterman

Public places are so lonely,
don't they almost tear your heart out;
merchandise left where it was dropped,
all of it owner-less and drear.

The mannequins weep invisibly after hours
that no one took them home;
for they don't have birthdays, anniversaries
to celebrate, and the doors don't know

A loving touch, anywhere.
The store windows sit nearly empty, hollow,
hands reaching out to no one-
closing on empty, echoing air.

The escalators stop climbing,
the elevators play dumb
as a hush fills every corner with lack of purpose;
The shuffling feet have gone away till another day.

The stillness exists only in waiting for something,
anything to break the monotony of every evening;
but the people who shop here are ghosts themselves,
who eventually die- and leave their things orphaned again.