False Front

Disintegration, quiet,
The appeal of the ghost town
May be that it matches you,
Your own traits softly echoed.

You can imagine yourself
As final, mute resident,
Maintaining a post office,
General store, and cafe.

You’re open if someone shows,
Closed when no one’s visiting.
Dozing behind the counter
You hear voices anyway,

Dream scraps of conversation
Keeping you from loneliness.
Every now and then, you snap
Out of a nap to notice

Your hands shaping empty air,
Something you’d been dreaming there.
You wish you could put it back
On the dustiest bare shelf.