dead stranger's past times

i walk through lampshades
made of ragged bones;
childhood monsters i'm not too
sure if i'm even here.
i'm so tired i walk through strangers' living rooms,
reminding myself of how once
i was not invited and yet
i wanted to be liked.
in between plastic and price tags
i saw myself out in these
situations among new books
and father's day useless presents.
i walk through mahogany and pinewood,
through fleece and silk.
what is it about department stores

that make us feel so at home?