gypsy woman sells sea shells by the shore

tells you about the water
and how you can hear the ocean in conch shells, the simplest reminder that you are never far from beauty
magical, she says,
but strange

she asks about your shells
you say
oh
i have none,
too out of place in your substandard apartment in the big bad city
and she laughs

she tells you that everyone has them
the people that become shells of their past forms
how strange
but how stranger it is for them, every so often, to emerge from the fog in their once fullest form
and no matter how far from them you are now, it will always bring you to your knees

worse than ghosts,
she says

like a melting iceberg
dissolving into the sea
ghosts become part of the scenery
whereas the shells get washed up on shore
waiting to be found

and we’re all just lost,
she says