The Book Shop Poem by HEG George

A second hand book shop watches the Sunday rain
beat against a resentful pavement. Its second hand
door opens up its second hand world to second
hand people, carrying first class money.

The newly welcomed, carrying in second hand rain,
congeal into groups of mildly interested beings.
And a dedicated few splinter off toward the first
editions, looking for a stiff pick-me-up in the arts

The best books of the shop lay open on stands, their
flawless condition protected behind glass casements.
The books residing within are aloof with peacock pride
and no price tags.

A finger raised and a pointed nod selects a book for
viewing. An auction begins with only one bidder, a price
in mind and not a penny more. The bookseller matches
the price to the man.

A 'special' price for a 'special' purchase. 'And for you sir,
the deal of the week. Trust me'. Suddenly the shops
odour changes from musty velum to second hand car lot.
The cash register rings another life line for the bookseller.

The rain begins to ease and the newly welcomed become
the cheerio'd as they rejoin the non-paying, nondescript.
The dust begins to revisit old homes and make a start on
the newly acquired vacant plot.

The bookseller cashes up his till, hoping for more rain
tomorrow. The books go back to reading themselves
and the shop returns to looking out on the bedraggled,
content with the day and happy to have lightened the load a bit