Lost in bookstores

They’re closing down the shops

Books burning holes in

Pockets, not pockets burning

Books, thankfully

I've bought too many rainy day

reads

Though isn’t there something

Lost

In the aisles of an old

Bookstore

Where feminist literature

Could become known to a

Fantasy novel or crime detective

Sleuths?

subtle passings of a

Poet, notices the historical

Wars section, becomes

Entranced by the thought of

Somebody spending a life time

of thought on 18 minutes of a

War.

Lost in the bookstore-histories

Spilling-unconsciousness.

Without calculated accuracy

shelves seem to

Present spines and titles to each

Person, unique.

I would not be here in this way today

If it weren’t for a number of titles

Spilling words into aisles

Or left strewn on haphazard milk crates,

Those rainy coffee stained days.

I could be lost