The book seller
does not look up
He is lost
in the art of the non-sale
His book is held out:
it a prop and he the actor.
Here he rules, with Frame and Sullivan;
Michener and Collins
The air is stale,
fusty with his leavings
He manages a feigned smile:
‘’Looking, are we?’’
There is no escape:
not the poetry or cooking;
not Home Mechanics
A bell shakes above the door
Sea air enters, a buyer leaves
I recommend that book store at Chertsey, between Ashburton and Rakaia.
It is vast – an old grain store – and so full you have to move sideways at some points.
It even has a small room at the back – with seats – for the lover of poetry.
This wee poem was not written about that store, just to be sure.
Thanks, Vicky. Yes, I’m sure we all like these shops and their hidden treasures.
Even though the air is “fusty” I can’t help but want to enter that bookshop. Interesting snapshot!