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I used to be a store in the mall
but after a while, I didn’t sell well.

I was rain sticks and Mozart mixed
with wind chimes.

I was solar-powered car kits kids
could piece together.


I was amethyst, pyrite, trilobite and
small suede pouches to house them.

I, then, was the whispered kill
of an animal thanked for its flesh.

I, then, was the total package,
and although my façade of a rock face


remains, I have been replaced
by an oxymoron:

a family-owned clothing outlet
with dusty-looking ties

and instead of a doorman,
my old door still always open.


I now encircle the mall’s
almost-abandoned fort.

I am the wind as wound up
as Hell’s second circle.

I lust for new souls or
at least a new location.


To learn more about Christopher Phelps, visit his website.