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,
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
Is not beside the point - it is the very reason she went in at all...
to breath him in.
AM, July 2015