By the corner store, down an empty street,
Lay shadows of our yesterdays;
Where memory stretches and frays like knots
Through musty doors, and passageways,
And the tumbling years flow through like air
Of a different time, with a different “clean” —
But the jacked-up, high-up cannot know
What they’ve never read about, or seen.
Past the laundromat and the hardware store
There’s an empty slot where the tailor was,
With an old Singer left to gather dust,
And the Open sign still in view, because
He never had meant to stop doing his work.
But the shadows came, so he drifted home
In the calm of the night, in a peaceful sleep,
With nobody else left, his store to keep.
Small town or large, every life is the same:
The change we expect, or the one without name
Will find us, and touch us, like new sun’s first rays,
And leave us mid shadows of our