The Bookshop - P Gregory Guss

[Larry Robinson]

The Bookshop 

I stood, as one does, 
in my favorite bookshop 
my right leg hoping to lock and support 
my hefty desires to read further

I look for short poems, personal, 
revealing of the human spirit, 
the soul’s hunger for honest reflection 
poignant and telling, gritty, touching boldness 

Poems that I would like to recite, 
have in my mouth adding cadence, verve and 
inflection owning the words slowly 
as a bank owns our money, briefly 

But I am old and my legs have their own voice now, 
a stylized grumble that yammers unlike a horse
ready for its barn, so I am obliged to depart

But my poetry-basket is thin, ever too light 
so I have become a modern thief,  
I photograph a page or three 
of the keepers that have jumped off their parchment 
as I can almost taste their fullness and 
décor on my tongue 

Then I blithely alight my favorite shop 
with three poems in tow, 
hidden, decoded into guiltless pixels 
for later consumption they might as well be 
a warm croissant, scone, or fritter

But this thievery has gotten to me 
so in the late afternoon I wander back in 
propping myself-up between Billy Collins and 
William Stafford, striking my pose with my 
fussy leg and wait until Melissa, the manager
re-shelves some lesser classics

I say to her, “I have a hard question for you”
she stops her task to listen

“Is it stealing if I photograph a poem or two?” 

She smiles and says, “we prefer you don’t, 
but keeping it to one or two, is probably ok,” 
her answer is seductive as she likely knows 
her own temptation to pilfer from 
the knowledge and creative wells
that feed us both


	- P Gregory Guss