a sigh.

 

Stacked high are

Stories, new and old that

Smell fresh off the printing press

 

Whether they are is beside the point.

 

Intoxicated visitors mingle along the aisles

With frowning faces, they read excerpts of pages of

People’s lives and feelings bled out into black ink....

 

Little whispers breath out,

                        “Excuse me”

As each is on a private mission

 

Whether it is noble or aimless is beside the point.

 

There is the guy who requested the

Location of the rare edition of a book

By an author that only the well-read intellect would know

 

There is the worker who

Quietly stacks books while constantly

Contemplating the next one he is going to read

 

And there is the girl who

Asked the worker where the poetry section is after

Stumbling upon a collection of Pablo Neruda love poems on a display table

 

She is now frowning over a collection of poems by

Mary Oliver who is nothing like Pablo Neruda and she is

Trying to concentrate on what the poem is saying but can only

Think of the boy that once introduced her to poetry and how rich

He made her feel by teaching her about the power of words, which she then

Used to write about him

 

Whether he knows that she is filled with the

Resonation of his voice and the gentle

Touch of his fingertips on her skin,

The playful banter or the quiet

Intensity of his character that

Seeped into her soul

Until it was too

Late to

Abstract

 

Is not beside the point - it is the very reason she went in at all...

to breath him in.

AM, July 2015