Hungry Ghosts

The antique stores around the square
stock a half-sinister wistfulness. It smells
of cigarette smoke, manufactured fragrance,
and very fine dust. It looks like the residue
remaining in tinted bottles after evaporation.
It sounds like discs on endless repeat and like
all conversations which never can happen.
It feels like shelves of perfectly motionless toys.
It feels like Ecclesiastes.