Rabbit Hole Roundabout

I don’t know why everytime I visit I expect

My dollar to stretch a fraction further, maybe

Cover the store in a dull green cotton cocoon

Tied with a bow ‘round my traveling stick,

So I can hitch a ride on the next boxcar train.

Or let it fill with the musty air grown hot

Lit by a hundred and twenty whale-oil lamps

To lift my things and me up, up, and away to

Rest among the canvas-bound clouds; flitting

Between Never, Wonder, and Something lands.

First edition paperback planes getting me

Where I want to go with travel-stamped trunks;

A journey in and of and inside themselves.

Scalloped blue gloves lovingly folded and

Lace parasols stiff with disuse and jars of

Buttons far past their prime of use, but still

Precious, like plastic wedding rings if diamonds Had adventures like WW II brass jacket toggles.

I go to find myself in art supplies, downy feathers,

Gossamer ribbon, and thimbles I have no use for

But treasure their dusty, worn inherent aesthetic.

I end up losing myself in the multifaceted quartz

Of decanters and tumbler sets I’d never touch.

And gilded teacups that’d sit and gather dust

On my neglected shelves already stocked with

Tiny, empty liquor bottles, their labels peeling,

Bits and bobs of little use; sextants and twisted

Bronze altimeters warped with age upon age.

Misplaced and slightly mad, I’ll drape myself in

Maps or music, watching absent china saucers

Dance with mason jars in sequin dresses, faded

Fanciful figurines clap along but can’t be seen.

To move would be a great faux pas when wicker

Wingback armchairs beckon me so sweetly.

Deep I sink within their velvet, cushioned folds

Where keys rattle rusting but open no lock and

Sterling silver steams my glasses, a lunette of

Mirrored glass, coke bottle, milk bottle and I

Am back where I began, wistful over every

Bottle green pill bottle, waxed wooden pipe and

Felt tophat. The oil painted faces point me

To a young door, a fleeting setting sun, and a sigh.

Not a dollar spent.