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.