Thursday, February 11, 2010


(photo from MDC archives)

My job was to help her sell her books.
I sat beside her at the folding table.
I made change while she met admiring looks
And signed her name as much as she was able.

Where I sat intruded on her aura.
It wouldn’t work if I’d sat far away.
Somebody’d brought a huge bouquet of flora,
Which someone else had quickly whisked away.

No room here for anything but books. She
Signed mine, “To My Colleague” – what a thrill!
The line was long. I thought, perhaps, that we

Might chat when it was over. But until
The place was closing, she was occupied.
I’m honored she brushed by me in her stride.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey

All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any manner without the author's written permission.

This poem appeared in Issue 9 of Fledgling Rag. Thanks to Editor/Publisher Le Hinton.

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