Irina's Books Has Closed
Parking lot's empty, the heroes flown to the city, fairy tales vanished anon.
Before the rain, angels roost in the eaves; clouds wick the sun behind me.
My soul's ragged with bluster, with braggarts; their words follow me round:
We locked the door; your sign's already fading; who remembers to read?
Dust devils are dancing (I hear their hooves scrape) all up and down the street.
No nib parries this sword at my throat, evening's ink is already spilled--
Dissolving Irina's, last princess, last print--it whirls away with the wind.
So this week's poem came out of a trip my husband & I took this weekend, searching for a used bookstore we had discovered online that, as it turned out, was no longer in business. This involved dodging construction and trying to remain civil while debating directions while navigating unfamiliar (narrow) roads. If we'd been more familiar with the area, we might have just parked and hiked around, although it wouldn't have led us to a bookstore. There were several empty storefronts along the way and between the tension and the emptiness, the uncanny seemed to wait nearby.
Sad. I hate to see another bookstore close, especially an independent one.
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Thanks for the background. Makes your poem so much more interesting.
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