the closing books

the bell above the door jingles
when you enter.
books are everywhere. paperbacks
and hard backs stacked in tilted
fragile towers.
pamphlets and magazines.
most old, most worn
and read over and again,
now here in limbo
awaiting another set
of eyes and hands. everything
marked down. there is the faint
odor of dried leaves
in the air, glue for binding.
there is no rhyme or reason to order,
no attempt in putting
the mysteries here,
the slim volumes of poetry
over there. the shop keeper
at his desk in the corner no longer
looks up to wave and ask
if he can help you,
no longer talks about politics
or weather, he's outlived
the neighborhood as well.
the children are all grown,
vague with their parents faces,
the readers he used to know,
who would come in and point
to a shelf where the new Cheever
or Ludlum might go.