Even the Bookstore

what is
to become of us
of no great art,
of no great will,

of squandered youth?

there's come

a point where
even the bookstore
leaves me with
regret for things
yet done
and reminders
of how little
time there's left.

it doesn't seem
so long ago,
stepping through
the entrance with a jingle
from the door chime
and a creek of the floor,
looking upon rows of top sellers
and staff recommendations,
their hand-written descriptions
across index cards --

it was as the record store
of my youth --

each shelf a new song,
each bin a new rhythm,
the rows of spine,
endless measures
wrapping 'round end-caps
singing and stepping,
beating the funk
out from everyday.

but now -- these books.
there are so many
of them!
they seem to
grow from shelves
like baby's teeth
of Great Whites.

all those stories to share,
places to visit,
dishes to taste,
crafts to learn,
technologies to test

our possibilities!

so many turns of phrase
so painfully gained
from all our great losses

from all our great leaps

art is for the broken --
the books, our rummage