These Old Things

I walk through the aisle of an antique mall, 
In a building that’s still and old, 
There are not many folks come here to shop,  
For the new is better, I’m told. 

But as I roam into every small booth,
And spot an old clock sitting there,
I think that a missus, so long ago, 
Must have wound it often with care. 

The chair with the price tag pinned in its arm, 
Must have sat in a parlor grand,
Where a pretty young maiden must have blushed,
When the gentleman took her hand. 

There’s a picture hanging here on this wall,
Of a boy and his dog at play,
I wonder perhaps if a young man’s mother, 
Passed by it and smiled every day? 

There’s a hat and gloves and dress over here,
That might have been worn together, 
And the hem is stained, as if by a chance, 
The lady was caught in bad weather. 

This old set of dishes wears a low price, 
For one of the plates has a crack,
I imagine some clumsy, school-age girl,
Let it fall from the still-wet stack.

In the corner I see a trundle bed,
Where a mother has lain her child, 
And lingered all night through fever and sleep,
And at morning, kissed it and smiled.  

There’s a pendant here on this velvet stand,
It’s dull now and seems out of style,
But to a widow, her husband’s last gift,
Might have made her whole life worth while. 

Half hid, I spot a dusty old saddle, 
I wonder who mounted this thing?
An aging cowhand, a drifter perhaps?
Who rode with his guitar to sing?

There’s lamps over here, half dim in their glow,
I think once they must have been bright,
And welcomed many a husband back home,
As he would return for the night. 

I can’t help noticing deep in the clutter, 
There’s a tablecloth folded square, 
How many dishes and cakes made with love,
Have sat on that fabric there? 

I’m near to the end of the antique mall,
I wipe off the dust of the old,
Some say the new things are better, I hear,
But I say these old things are gold.