Funeral at the flea market

dearly
departed

books
stacked                                    

askew
    atop                                  
    uneven                                        

shelves
positioned                                                                 

closely
touching

both                                 
   my chest
   and back

blanketed 
in the dust        

(dead skin
   cells) 
    
  of 
 so 
many 
years
 
(sloughed
   off)

people 
     impatiently 
waiting
 
to my 
left 
& right

to search
      the secondhand        
     
space
     I've taken.

I
      lift 
an old one 

then
move
 (quietly) 
  
along

3 comments:

  1. Matt D1:48 AM

    mm ... the smell of used books comes to mind.

    A neat poem.

    ReplyDelete
  2. temporal rooms3:42 AM

    and this what we do isn't it? we get quiet and become an island
    when confronted with people and books. but for different reasons.

    ~robert

    ReplyDelete
  3. James Owens9:05 AM

    books seem different than other objects when they move from hand to hand, opening out into so many lives ... and of course you are right -- we hold our space in the world in exactly the same way ...

    ReplyDelete

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