Bookstore

I.

Sitting quiet in a bookstore
it smells like ink and coffee,
and I swear I caught the scent of dreams
hanging in dusky incense
in the air next to Hafiz

II.

I love people who read
There's the little dumpling dark-haired lady,
slipping out of her clunky pumps, ugly, black,
freeing her nylon-sheathed feet to
rub the textured wheel of the table stand,
absentmindedly,
stroking it slowly. I watched, and blessed
that simple, sensual act- how sweet, how unaffected, how
perfect.