LANDAY FOR AUGUST

In this antique shop, my body stands, 
A trap of treasures from bygone lands. 

Black Mid-century chairs hung like a bell, 
whispers of youth in their fiberglass shell. 

Lava lamps glow, casting hynotizing dreams, 
Lost in the haze of guitar streams. 

Vinyl records spin, their melodies wail, 
echoes of life in a dusty detail. 

Bell-bottom jeans hang, for skinny and bold, 
Love burned by acid embroidered in gold. 

Typewriters clack with a rhythmic insist, 
Each word a moment, a memory not missed. 

Handblown glass glimmers, reflecting my past, 
in bubbly colors, the gobblets and vases never cast. 

Vintage toys clackety-click don’t look icky, frozen in time, 
Dawn Dolls, wood playthings, thumb harps pluck away rhyme. 

Mom’s jewelry sparkles like chandeliers in the night, 
each piece still huge and heavy and bright. 

Trapped in this maze of relics and lore, 
I find myself glad beyond what came before.