The Bookstore
The bell on the opened door announces my presence,
and the smells of old paper and freshly brewed French Roast
confirm that I am home.
Quietly but excitedly, I begin to explore the stacks,
seeking prose poems by Baudelaire, biographies of Gauguin, and
Gibbon's epic history of Rome.
And you sit silently behind your desk,
black-rimmed glasses on your head, intense and alone,
pondering your next tome.
You peacefully acknowledge my silent passion,
with slight smile and raised eyebrow, and
confirm: I am home.
© fprm, 2009
10-9-2009
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