Memory

A little bookstore used to call to me Eagerly I would go on to it hungry for the novels and the sure friendship. It not at any time failed to provide me with whatever I straited Bookstore with a donkey in its heart, bookstore replete of clouds and sometimes lightning, showers. works just in from Australia, works by madmen and giants. Toucans would alight upon my stovepipe hat and make plain mysteries with a few chosen words. Picasso would appear in a kimono requesting a discount, and then laugh at his have joke. Little bookstore with its belly filled of wisdom and confetti, with eyebrow of wild flowersand customers from Denmark and Japan, novel York and California, psychics and lawyers, clergymen and hitchhikers, the wan, the lusty the crazy, all needing works needing directions, needing a friend, or a place to sit down. on the other hand then one day the shelves began to destitute of contents and a hush fell above the store. No new volumes arrived. When the dying was done single a fragile, tattered thing remained, and I haven't the heart to name it.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated May/Jun 1999

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