I walked into a bookstore and secured
the lowest-paying job I loved the best.
I got to spend my days with dust, immured
amid used books, near maps, at the behest
of inattentive managers. I sold
the stuff I craved; I dealt in print with glee.
I found old folios and grew so bold
I hawked the 13-volume O.E.D.
I interrupted college to work more,
advancing to book order and return,
and searching for the out-of-print. That store
was love but little profit, as I’d learn.
I have no better memories, I think.
I read a Kindle now, but still love ink.
In time I moved ahead, as did the shop.
The owner passed – retirement or death
attracted a new buyer. Soon a stop
was put to vintage – retail paid for breadth
of profit and the changes, banal, dull,
made uninviting any future there.
But I went on with love of books so full,
I always sought more shelf space everywhere.
Eventually I downsized to this place.
I had to part with hundreds and restrict
my further acquisitions. I have space
for what is here – in general, well-picked.
Such books have been my sweetest friends, I think.
I read a Kindle now, but still love ink.
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