A town, turning.
Recycled corners flip to busy streets,
frame shiny cars queued before red lights,
tastebuds dry for Friday-night cuisine,
a paycheck celebration—
and another door, cardboarded
Local windows watch, hollowed.
Make room for more elite.
cornrows of worn books—
convenience stores, gifted from father to son—
a shoemaker’s countertop, dusted—
he lived upstairs, once.
Windows see and have seen,
polished for the turning.
Scrubbed of local fingerprints
that pressed from the inside.
A generation’s farewell.
Visitors peer in, anxious waiting.
What will lift these gleaming floors?