Antiquity
Author: Bill Roberts
I use the Antique Mall, a giant relic
on Laurens Street in Aiken,
to boost my appetite for dinner,
intending to browse for perhaps an hour
and then scoot around the corner
to a prime rib and some dark beer
at The Bowery, a friendly eatery.
I know I’ve made a mistake immediately
upon entering the gigantic antique store -
the musty smell and degree of my error
increase with each slow step
through the venerable time capsule
as I gaze upon the entire contents
from our old house on Clifton Street
so many years ago: the veneer
storage cabinet and upright storage chest,
so yellowed and shiny, chipped
by my assaults with hangers, belt buckles,
bony elbows; the garishly painted
cheap wooden table and chairs
from our kitchen arrest my appetite,
then all of the various utensils
and kitchen aids of my youth spread out
before me, plus our very own
place settings of worn metal spoons,
forks and knives, badly tarnished,
certain to taint any food they may touch;
the tiny dressing table and mirror
where my sister would sit for hours,
her beauty diminished by its tawdriness;
my mother’s uncomfortable lounge chair
that even she refused to sit in,
no matter how work weary;
the various wall shelves and upright stands
for knickknacks, scores of those dusty
little buggers there too, defying removal
of the dust built up over the years;
the beat-up chest in which we stored
undesirable bedspreads and woolen items,
affording mice a warm sanctuary;
comic books and mindless hardbacks
and old Life magazines protraying
Plastic Man, some fool in the Yukon,
and a Veronica Lake no longer so
provocatively attractive after so many years.
My stomach is in revolt.
My feet need breathing room.
I gasp for today, tonight, this moment.
Release me from yesterday,
long ago, the ill-named Good Old Days.
(Published in Illya’s Honey, Volume 4, Number 1, Spring 1998)
Note: This is a natural follow-on poem to the previous one, where I lamented secondhand clothes. True story: I was staying in Aiken, SC, the summer of 1997 on a two-week project at the Savannah River Plant. Most evenings I sought out The Bowery to dine. This particular late afternoon, I made the mistake of entering the cavernous antique store and was overcome with unpleasant deja-vu trepidation. My appetite vanished almost entirely and thereafter I steered clear of the quaint little stores all through charming Aiken, fearing I’d be transported again to the struggles of the Forties. Though my childhood was five-dimensional with fun and excitement, I’ve never once wanted to return to the poverty so many of us took for granted in those less-than-halcyon days.
