She goes there for the poetry books
standing in the same aisle every time.
Philosophy and psychology share the
aisle but it's fine so long as she can dig
on her side, unencumbered. It takes time
to scour the stack and peruse samples
from prospective picks. She's not much
of an anthology girl, as she likes to get to
know a poet. Some books have yellowed
pages, dusty covers, and a musky scent
that comes from years of sitting on wooden
shelves. Each has different paper, ink, fonts,
words; everything crafty metaphors and
inanimate personification needs. Over the
loudspeaker, We will be closing in thirty minutes.
She checks her stack of books piled near as
she thumbs their pages, approving the selections.
She thinks to herself, maybe just one more.
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