At the bookstore

We’re all sitting in the bookstore, never buying.

Wanting to taste the tea they sell, but never trying.

We fight so hard to be unchanged

by the convictions of others, but we are not the same.

What they really want us to have they don’t sell.

Fluorescent lights and small seats,

I will meet you between the sheets

Maybe of paper, maybe cloth

since you seem like you are lost.

Maybe I could find you if I tried.

Tomorrow morning, will you love me?

Will there be someone above me?

Will you fight to recall my name?

What else can you not retain?

I didn’t know that I was just a game.

Maybe I will cook for you

or is there some place to get to?

I can make you something quick

like oatmeal that will stick

to your bones; you are so thin.

So now, what is left to say?

Paraphrase Edna Saint Vincent Millay:

‘Are you warmed a little, though far from warm?’

Have I done more good than harm?

I don’t want to be one more mistake to you.

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7 thoughts on “At the bookstore

  1. Pingback: At the bookstore | edge of frog

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