The Mall Poem by r james sterzinger

twenty-three years ago,
the mall stood there,
the stores half empty,
an earlier recession,
always a bad location.

the mall became a strip mall,
now the most of the stores are empty too.
where the Montgomery Wards anchored,
that is now a cancer radiation center,
death being the only business,
that remains a constant.

the theatre,
became a two dollar show place,
then it closed for good.
the sparrows and pigeons and made it a home.
the neighborhood mice,
live in the walls, between the insulation.
in spring they eat the fallen berries,
that fall off the old ornamental trees

we have been through the changes also, my dear.
twenty-three years in this neighborhood,
twenty-four years as a couple.
our love that was naive and hopeful then,
now it is neither.

when we met I was the pursued
you were the pursuer I was worth the effort
now that too has transmogrified or metastasized
I am not sure which.
to you now I am all effort, an effort to live with
not to love, let us not delude ourselves.
I am still the romantic, still the poet
I still see you as beautiful,
then again I wear glasses now.

shall we too remodel, restructure, change
hope for better times?
no, I don't think so
too many things that don't belong in us
have moved in.
this film has been played out.
even our children who sit in the cheap seats
have seen it all too much.

the elder ones have moved out.
you and I are their bad stories or poems too
(if one would even want to follow my path
they have heard too many of your rants about me.)

let's make no effort at the rebuilding.
let's end it. tear it down.
make it a space for a quiet end.
I will miss you for a while, then not at all.
who knows, you may miss me not at all,
then after a while
either way, I don't care.

everything in this day and age changes
it's all for the better, for the good.
the other day I asked you,
'I think you'd rather have me dead.'
you said, ' what has that got to do with anything? '
what we had just ran out of gas,
got old, got tired,
like the mall did.
nothing left for gain,
nothing but my memories,
alone, while I write out this poem.