Inventory of a Closed Shop

The brass bell still hangs above the door that no one opens now— a tongue holding its one cold word for whoever thinks to ask.

Spools of thread keep their colors like a choir told to wait: saffron, ash, the blue of late October when the light goes thin and the needles practice patience.

Dust learns the shape of every shelf, becomes the soft gray gospel of things left long enough alone to forget they were ever for sale.

I count them as my father did, moving my lips without sound— button, ribbon, paper, twine— each one a small hour he set down and could not carry.

Outside, the street keeps spending light. Inside, the scissors rest half-open, two thin silver questions the afternoon declines to answer.