The Bookseller

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

3 thoughts on “The Bookseller”

  1. 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.

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