Secondhand

It isn't fresh ink or the factory floor,

but the musk of a life that isn't here anymore.

I cracked back the spine in the aisle by the drain

while the window was streaked with the October rain.

It’s basement damp and a hint of old glue,

a chemical sweetness that’s biting and true.

I found a coffee ring shaped like an 'o'

on a page about secrets from a long time ago.

I’m holding the breath of a man I don't know,

letting the dust of his history grow

until the shop owner looks up from his tea

and realizes the ghost is just me.