The Thrift Shop At the End of the Universe
in the beginning there was a junk shop
not an antique store or a vintage pop-up,
not even a charity thrift. a junk shop,
dingy and disorganized
with a radio playing an almost indecipherable
station full of songs you think
you might remember from your childhood
it doesn't have sections exactly
just shelves, mismatched and loosely sorted,
stacked with figurines and wicker baskets
old appliances from late-night infomercials
stacks of books you probably should have heard of
plastic toys and puzzles you doubt have all the pieces
slightly knotty yarn and seven mismatched knitting needles
markers older than you, silver plate tarnished black
costume jewelry and polyester shirts,
shoes from brands you've never heard of,
stuffed toys that look bored and tired,
scratchy to the touch
but every time you move something
there's something else behind it,
maybe moldering plastic flowers, maybe vintage pyrex,
maybe a broken barometer or a handmade quilt,
deadstock vintage jeans, original art,
first editions, raw materials,
tools you'd never be able to afford new
and so you keep going, further away
from the dusty sunlight of the front windows
maybe down a twisting staircase- or was it up?
you barely notice as you pull out
yards of table cloths and sheets waiting
to be remade, half-finished crochet projects
with the hooks still in, ready to go,
art supplies and beautiful wooden boxes,
souvenirs and photo albums and entire lives,
everything that mattered to people
you drag it out into the aisles,
lay it across an old dining table with two leaves
and a little sticker that says $17
one thing after another that looks like inspiration
before you know it you are building
something new
finding a universe
inside of something old
folding what was loved
into things that can live again
carving rocks into people
breathing spirit into porcelain
watching it walk away from you
all that's left to do
is turn back again to the shelves