12 January 2011

Bookstore by Nate Munson

Head hunched over,
his eyes meticulously,
the words printed before him.
These books,
       are his daily home;
Between Noon and Two,
his extended lunch break
      he sits alone,
 in this dusty ol’ bookstore,
and everyday I watch him,
          sink his teeth into these,
words of authors,
completely apathetic to the bustling commerce around him.
Our physical world is devoid of anything valuable to him.
The stiff pages of new books,
         snap back to their place,
    when his thumb releases them,
greedily gripping another as he turns the page,
    to delve further into the world of words,
         gently resting in his hands.
The older books have a distinct,
                smell to them;
a cologne he’ll wear forever—
        a fragrance he’ll carry to his grave.
Lost amongst these words,
     as he drifts further,
                                          and further,
into this literary sea.
     his jeans rest loosely at his hip.
His black jacket strewn across the book aisle,
        he’s currently sitting in.
With his head hunched over,
           the pages of these books,
his eyes continue to meticulously,
the words of the past and the present;
          of fiction and reality
printed before him.
He’ll forever sit alone,
           in this dusty ol’ bookstore,
until every last word,
      has faded from these decaying pages.
-Nate Munson

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