the corner bookstore

there was an old
bookstore
on the corner. if
you sneezed,
you walked past
it, unnoticed.
in the window
seat
was a cat
sleeping
below the tilted
red sign
saying
open.
a bell jingled
when
the creaky
door swung in
and you could
smell
the books,
the hard pages
and covers
not wet, but
heavy with age.
books on steel
mills
and sewing.
great birds
of south America.
mark
twain and Sylvia
plath
leaning on one
another for support.
there was no order
or disguise at order,
just books,
in stacks, on shelves,
in open boxes
waiting for a hand
to get them
out.
somewhere in the fog
of all of it
was a man sitting
near a table
eating a sandwich
sipping
tea, reading,
pointing to where
a new edition
of salinger might be.