the nostalgia store

the nostalgia store
is always open. nobody works here. it is self serve.
the nostalgia store is an island.
at high tide, the ocean
rushes in, frothy sea-foam lapping
at the bottom shelves.
last week, it carried the jewel
belly troll dolls out to sea,
never to be thought of again. the only currency
the nostalgia store accepts as payment is time.
you can’t buy a super soaker at the nostalgia store,
only the feeling not having
a super soaker used to give you,
when the ad came on, and you wanted one most.
the nostalgia store goes on forever
but the rooms in the back get smaller
as you go. each space
feels more sacred than the last,
but isn’t. the nostalgia store tightens,
like a snare. there are no people
at the nostalgia store, only ghosts
you used to play with. there’s regret
at the nostalgia store but don’t call it that.
no names for anything
but plastic here. i walk into the nostalgia store,
try to buy the childhood i wish i’d had.
all i can find are flashing lights, greeting card
melodies. stuffed reindeer
playing carols from plastic boxes in their bellies.
legos. a playmobile dog,
stolen from my cousin. tamagotchi poops.
the cracks on the backside
of the school bus seat—a topography
of childhood from a raven’s eye.
a castle of wooden blocks on the floor,
the sound they made
as i knocked it all down.

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