Something has to be old,

not this eternal new, no scuffed corners or

stories to tell.

Without scratches and scars of history

what are we

but endless remakings missing the one ingredient

making us us.

That old floor, concrete, painted red

once

holds, simply, the scent and memory of red

the countless footfalls and dropped coffees

words, silent songs, and resting weight

of decades of loved use.

Old meets time

where novelty hasn’t the guts

to leave its natural mark.