The Death of a

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.