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bookstore
Stooping
my two knees beg landing
to the bottom shelf
of three
glidance past
the pop
pop knuckle crack of
nearby college sweats
plunged
in
a chair gone to seed
greasy graveyard shifts of arms
circled four by
four in a
space of gray
I sink toward the floor
in my white knit
skirt
artfully slit
and flirting
across the new chemise
you would pore
over me
over me
it murmured between the teeth
bending for a bounded book
my fingerprint hands
trace its heavy
coat
its scruffy weekend jaw
not slick fast men with neoprene eyes
lipserving sanctimoniously
but real
as winter bumps
on your back
in November
a page of ecru textile
paper thick clearly black with words
solid shapes of words to anchor
scraping words
that plop onto the scale
like a fish
flapping in this store
kicking through colors of
brave new me
as you spy
as you sit on this bottom shelf
and follow
me back to this room
in my house
on my page of clearly black words
of me without
you
would pore
over me
over me.
Mia Moore
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