Public places are so lonely, <br />don't they almost tear your heart out; <br />merchandise left where it was dropped, <br />all of it owner-less and drear. <br /> <br />The mannequins weep invisibly after hours <br />that no one took them home; <br />for they don't have birthdays, anniversaries <br />to celebrate, and the doors don't know <br /> <br />A loving touch, anywhere. <br />The store windows sit nearly empty, hollow, <br />hands reaching out to no one- <br />closing on empty, echoing air. <br /> <br />The escalators stop climbing, <br />the elevators play dumb <br />as a hush fills every corner with lack of purpose; <br />The shuffling feet have gone away till another day. <br /> <br />The stillness exists only in waiting for something, <br />anything to break the monotony of every evening; <br />but the people who shop here are ghosts themselves, <br />who eventually die- and leave their things orphaned again.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-is-always-on-sale/
