Dismemorobilia
whispered
the crooked
sign
over the
door.
Potential
customers
wandered
into the shop
nodded to
the sleepy
clerk,
spent
a few
uneasy minutes
looking
at this or
that item,
the vague
sense
of disquiet
growing as
their eyes
adjusted
themselves
to the
shadows, the scrim
of greasy
dust.
They left
empty-handed
always
and always
left something
behind:
a nail
clipping,
stray
hairs,
a peeling
of dead skin.
Strangely
there is no
delivery
entrance
but the
inventory seems
never
to be depleted.
