orgy in the brattle bookstore

the bookstore on West Street
seems almost normal at first

like any bookstore filled
with books on metal shelves

but the smell of pages too
old to be my mother
births something in my heart
and I can't hold back
the prayers for lost knowledge

the songs of suicided lovelies
and long dead bearded men
in out-of-style suits.

upstairs are the first editions
exotics, and rares
where the latex gloves
are mandatory and

no sneezing allowed.

when the girl steps away
I can still feel both her eyeballs
caressing my neck
like a gentle jailor
waiting for the bubba-peepshow after lights out

Wincing, apparently, is permitted
when the sound of Shakespeare collection's
spine crkcrkcrkinkles
beneath my tingling finger tips.

the stress is too much

i take off the gloves
hand her the volume
and walk back out on to West.

Next door at the bar
I drink to Whitman, Sexton and hard-ass knowledge

the lady upstairs would be proud,

i think.