words and photo by ben murphy
Derelict but dancing,
He stands somewhere in between
A grimace and a grin.
What is he thinking?
The posters on his window
Are rendered inconsequential.
Every sale couldn’t
Keep the doors open,
Couldn’t keep the children smiling.
There’s a hole in the wall,
His battle wound,
A stinging reminder that he lost
To the one across the street.
Rats and cockroaches
Are his only customers now.
For the three of them are alike;
They are unwanted, unloved, unsung.
They bind together,
To trudge through life.
And that is why his glass windows still twinkle
Even though wooden boards
Keep the sun from ever reaching the tiled floor.
Asbestos pipes
Drip dingy water
Onto unwiped countertops.
A plastic bag is caught
On a loose nail that protrudes from the crumbling ceiling.
It, like him, cannot move towards prosperity.
Because before they can be reborn,
Rebranded,
They must decompose.
Succumb to their faults
And watch their rivals succeed.
Paper bags in the arms of happy customers
Walk by his doors.
And though the wrecking ball will come,
He’s satisfied,
At least those people still got a sandwich.