The Bookseller

The book seller

does not look up

He is lost

in the art of the non-sale

His book is held out:

it a prop and he the actor.

Here he rules, with Frame and Sullivan;

Michener and Collins

The air is stale,

fusty with his leavings

He manages a feigned smile:

‘’Looking, are we?’’

There is no escape:

not the poetry or cooking;

not Home Mechanics

A bell shakes above the door

It opens to the sound of the sea;

on this sloping street, it is escape
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