Sweeping in Antique Shop

Time leaves a residue.
It's my job to wipe it, sweep it under,
away and out so the customers can't tell how long
the desk sat unattended in
some locked storage unit,
or that set of chairs sold in the estate sale
after that woman died in the nursing home
waited weightless for years
circling the oak table
someone else bought.

Dad said the table was
beat up, though, wouldn't sell.

That set of chairs lasted five
days in our shop.
Our shop in the basement of the tall,
tired
red brick building.
Old sells best within old.

There was a popcorn machine upstairs,
a lot of it fell down here, between cushions and
under lamp shades.

The chairs were picked up by a gray couple new to town.
They wanted some antiques in their house,
something western and worn,
something to bring the room down,
something already full of years and ghosts,
anything used just in case they don't have the spirit left.