Shelley

Our eyes met across the empty space in a movie moment
the book in his hand well-loved by many owners
the spine old and cracked
the gold lettering worn to nothing but
the embossed impressions of where words used to be

He was obviously a bibliophile
his basket filled with indiscriminate haste
by whatsoever cover struck his fancy
in his hand a vintage Shelley good old Percy Bysshe
it was Prometheus Unbound he cradled like a lover

His moss green eyes the kind of hue
that belongs on a rainforest floor
twinkling with glee as if he knew
some secret he would share with me
if I only knew to ask the right questions

As if he knew I had been watching him
as he fondled this book caressed another
murmured the love words written in a third
envious of his easy rapport
with a layout that had me bedeviled

As if he knew it was the sole reason I braved this den
of moldy books and moldier men
and delighted in the fact that the faithless book had
spurned my advances accosting him
almost as soon as he walked into the store

I had been here for hours before sans success
Glaring daggers at his back half-heartedly
lethargic with frustration I searched for another copy
when our eyes met once again between the books
he reached into his basket with mossy eyes a-twinkle

He handed me the Shelley across the empty space
and walked away humming a big band standard
because he knew he had rocked my world
his name and number offered on the scrap of paper
he had neatly tucked into the binding


line count: 35