ghosts of stores past

banded together

by a thick

rubber band i find

a handful

of old check registers

in the creaky file cabinet

in the basement.

carefully, like finding

the dead sea scrolls,

i turn the yellow pages.

it was before a house,

before money

was plentiful, before

marriages

and children, before 

nearly everything i have.

there's an entry for nine

dollars and

ninety-five cents at

the A and P,

a check for three bags of groceries,

another for books at

Borders,

a wrench from Hechinger's.

gallons of paint,

and assorted brushes, 

sandpaper.

there's record of a check

for my mother, for mother's day.

ten dollars.

a check for Britches of Georgetown

for pants

and shirts,

another for Lord and 
Taylors,

one made out to Sears for

snow tires,

a black and white tv

from Circuit City,

dress shoes from Kinney's.

and a large check for twenty-seven

dollars

to Tower Records

with Bob Dylan in the memo.