The shop itself, and pieces as they stood together before they left.
Closed, but the window carries on working.The sign says open. The sign is right.Saturday running late. It happens here.A cabinet that is already a collection in itself.Six mirrors, six opinions.A chair to disappear into.A buffalo, a torso and yellow roses. Don't ask, just look.Bent plywood, still younger than the table it stands on.Coffee for twelve. Or for one, twelve times.A sideboard wearing everything that would not fit inside it.The lamp wins. The lamp knows it.A desk. Once for work, now for things.Tubular steel and full sail, on the same table.A vaulting horse from the gym. Nobody has to clear it now.The dog comes with the shop. The dog is certain of it.A ceiling rose that never has to go back up.The way through to the back. Mind the mannequin.It is all still here. Tomorrow, perhaps not.Wrapped, with a flower thrown in.Something small, out of a shop full of large.