May 12, 2020

Used Bookstores

I like used bookstores—especially ones crammed full with narrow walkways 
on crooked narrow streets blocks away from the main drag
wooden doors with a thousand scratches on them--bookworm infested
inside...the musty aroma of aging paper
one or two stories to contain a million stories
creaky wooden floors that speak voices of dead authors
ones that sell used books that old teachers and the occasional studious individual 
have poured over while drinking a hot cup of coffee or tea
while whiling away a rainy afternoon or evening 
next to a stone fireplace or in a favorite old leather sofa
snow falling on a winter’s night a blanket of hush
students reading Nietzsche overnight instead of Calculus II
cutting class by day to read about what they’re really interested in
I like libraries too at least how they used to be
villages of serene in a world of cacophony 
beautiful silence that calmed the soul
now local libraries are like La Petite Academy with brats acting wild
adults chatting on phones in stage whispers 
I enjoy going to the local university library and seeking out the quiet floors
meant for serious reading, thoughts, study and contemplation 
or just browsing through the silence of revelation
walking around the campus—the intoxicating academia of it all
ivy covered walls and buildings with old fascinating windows 
I want to go into all of them and look out 
I didn’t like going to university 
I wasn’t a good art student
never was one to follow the rules
but I like being in that environment—outside in 
have no warm feelings towards new bookstores--corporate and sterile 
overpriced books-overpriced coffee shops- people glued to laptops
let me spend a few hours of happiness perusing ye ole book shoppe
maybe I’ll find something on Lenin, Churchill, or Matisse
go back to the past and get lost for a few hours
‘cause I don’t like where I am now

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