poem

Corner Bookstore

Is it the sound of my exhaled breath releasing

me from my leather chair, dry thumb

plinking tines on a plastic comb or

the pattern of steps I take looking for

my shoes, dance of a drone

bee giving up coordinates to apple blossoms,

that alerts the dog to a walk before

I can lift the chain from the nail, dead

giveaway sound of beads poured

into a metal bowl calling you

into the kitchen, drawing you outside

behind me, collar turned up against

light rain, jacket flapping open to thin

wind rushing April along when she would

rather wait for us by the side

door, a quick break from the march to

May. Outbound leg a true course

down the south side of the street past the

gravity of the park tugging the dog to fetch

ball free of the leash. Chance for honest

work, to hone her craft, lost now to the

uncertainties of left or right, stop or go,

here or there, fast or slow and silence in the

vacuum between us. Ears pricked to scratchy

short-wave maydays only she can hear

spiraling overhead, gift and burden of

a beast who can sense impending

earthquake while the rest of us laugh and head

for the second floor. Past the old fire alarm

relay station, slate and stone and

wavy glass anchored, enduring

time passing over, a torrent of spring melt

boiling against scoured banks, leaving behind

sluggish pools, echoes of fast, rising water

carrying some, drowning others.

Up the easy slope into town the way hurtling

bowling balls return, slow, emerging

from darkness with a muffled knock against

Main Streets’ acceleration, looped and seamless.

We hedge against the prevailing

pace with the rhythm of Budwigs’

brushes under Guarldi’s piano.

The bookstore floats above Sixth and

Main, stern of a Cunard liner at midnight

anchor, plate riveted to rib, bleeding

light, ready to sail. We stand dwarfed on

the dock, faces lit winter moons,

wondering whether to wave bon voyage

or board to lean on the rail, fingers

spliced, uncertain seas ahead.

David Hardin

January, 2002