Bill Roberts, Poet

Antiquity

Friday, November 13th, 2009

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.

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