(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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