Sunday, June 9

To Those Who Work In Charity Bookshops

the precious beings; to those girls who work in
charity bookshops & count not to lunch hours
Read tirelessly—serve silently & whose haunches
squeeze onto an old chair unstuffing itself

(who, not once, batted an eye at my
choice of secondhand postcards)

unsettled herself to ring—a convenient paragraph
break—up my three books my five postcards my
‘twenty-seven-eighty-please’ Little teenage bones
not hard & light enough for the counter Dyed her

hair two days ago( mother doesn’t like it nor does
father but my friend’s boy does )raspberry slush
puppie blue( am gonna leaf through that copy of
Conrad in a moment, too )just give me a second

Could all my longing secondhand by rights the bum
you left near unmarked Updikes & a Roth? tuck the
postcards into my Yeats; he won’t mind—Let’s dine
by the river; the quiet front won’t suffer; you with me.

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