What I would not give to stroll, at leisure
and alone, through an 80s shopping mall.
Now deserted, time an afterthought to the
ghosts of so many shopping enthusiasts
whose footprints linger
as incorporeal knowledge upon
carpets of striking abstract colour
and pattern, vacuums at the ready
in locked storage cupboards
as silent as the atrium,
where only my breath and blinks
can be heard.

I would tread so carefully, escalators
nothing but metallic grooved staircases,
disturbing nothing with my
investigative curiosity,
my eyes laden and leaden,
steeped in wonder at this relic,
always a dream
though close to a memory, for
some period of longing and want
that can never reappear.

Shops lie haunted, their wares paused
like a VHS, their outlines trembling
as the cloudy sky outside of their
protective building rumbles and shakes
like cassette tape fuzz, but we are
in our haven,
marbled, grandiose,
plastic plants placed perfectly
like walls of subterfuge, as I traipse
with no goal and no desire to stop.