Across the street
From a Harding’s
In a small, suburban town near here
Sits a bookstore, fairly small,
Full of dirt-cheap, used books,
And, as far as I know,
No new ones.
.
The owner is the son of the original owner,
Who was once an overweight man
With a grey Walter Raleigh mustache.
.
Lots of times,
When I go to the bookstore,
It’s closed,
Even if it’s, say,
Tuesday at five in the afternoon.
.
When I’m in there,
The owner is typically idling,
Fairly,
Engrossed in a newspaper or some other
Leisurely thing,
Never stocking, organizing, sorting or
Doing any other sort of “work”
You could imagine.
.
His inventory is not databased.
.
If you were to ask him if he had a certain title,
He would most likely have no clue whatsoever,
Unless it were by chance something he remembered seeing.
.
Still, all in all,
Despite not adding on a café,
Or a bar,
Or an outdoor patio,
Or really infusing the store
With any sort of flare,
Signature, uniqueness or distinction, whatsoever,
He still maintains a good reputation in the community.
.
His track record is operating-room-clean
And he doesn’t bother anyone.
.
And, once in a while,
Someone will go in,
Purchase an old, dusty, used book,
And leave,
All the while, apparently,
Very satisfied.
.
I myself have done it,
To the tune of a phone-book-sized
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare,
Hardcover, for $6.
.
The book now sits in my office,
Reflecting tradition and convention
Better than just about anything these days
Save for maybe Spam and Modelo beer.
.
Nobody seems upset at the owner for
What’s apparently his extreme, astronomical laziness
And apathy to his own establishment.
(From his apparently not needing to work a day job,
It can be surmised that he has money,
The type of thing which could have gone to
Adding a café, a bar, a lobby, an outdoor patio, etc.)
.
Then, you get to thinking about the mental makeup
Of the people who patronize this store.
.
Who knows?
.
All you can look at is their track record,
Which is likely spitshined and roadworthy.
.
They likely don’t need books.
.
And,
As far as the people go who do NEED books,
Maybe they’re gone.
.
Maybe they’re locked up.
.
Maybe they conspired to kill Trump,
The president who defunded PBS and NPR and
Obliterated the first legitimate health care program
This nation has ever seen.
.
Maybe they set fire to an establishment that sold yoga pants.
.
Maybe they crashed their cars
After an eight-hour stint at
Good Anuff pub,
Wherein they were cowering,
Burrowing,
Trying to hide from the din of everyday life,
From the oppression of a world
That’s got them,
By way of costs, obligations,
Condescension and expedition,
In the meat grinder.
.
The bookstore still stands across from the grocer,
And nothing is at it seems,
The only certain things being
The fiery pit of rage,
Resentment, disbelief,
Exploding from the proletariat,
.
And the glib degradation of knowledge and truth
On the part of the population which
Simply doesn’t need them.