A good story, & moves us along with the narrator to that nicely unfinished finish, Max.
I agree with Sheila; maybe not necessary that phrase.
Doug
> On Feb 24, 2016, at 12:20 AM, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> This is so pure, Max.
> I love what this shows. At the close, I might think of not saying directly
> "senior whisky-poet," but keep it subtle in the style of the rest.
> Beautiful.
> On Feb 23, 2016 11:31 PM, "Max Richards" <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
>> Down in Horizon Books
>> 10th Avenue, Seattle
>>
>> With an afternoon to kill
>> I should find somewhere
>> to sit and read the book
>> in my shoulder bag
>>
>> but first why not check
>> the basement shop
>> where I like to chat
>> with the old book dealer
>>
>> before a good long browse
>> along his crowded shelves
>> and temptation mostly
>> resisted? I need my tiny
>>
>> pocket flashlight for his
>> lower shelves, and skip
>> entirely his upper ones.
>> No one about but me
>>
>> and him - he squeezes past
>> popping out for a smoke
>> (was that a whisky whiff?)
>> and squeezes back into
>>
>> his messy corner, ice-
>> hockey on his screen
>> yonder, book info on
>> his computer. Two coats
>>
>> on the backrest of his
>> old swivel chair, top-heavy.
>> Temptations pile up -
>> poets, books about poetry.
>>
>> Crash! - along at his end -
>> a quiet voice saying Help?
>> - help me up. The old man
>> is sprawled on the floor
>>
>> tangled in his swivel chair,
>> betrayed by it. To lift him up
>> would take a stronger man
>> than me. At least I can
>>
>> heave the tangling chair
>> aside. Can we grip each other’s
>> arms? - not well. He says:
>> leave me be a while to rest.
>>
>> I retreat to European history,
>> peeking at him now and then.
>> Shall we try now? Not yet.
>> We have the shop to ourselves.
>>
>> Settled on just four books, I check
>> my watch. Better get him up.
>> His gesture indicates some
>> stomach muscle weakness.
>>
>> He’s shifted to a possible
>> standing effort, and holding
>> one elbow, one armpit, I
>> ease him up and help him sit
>>
>> in that pesky swivel chair.
>> He asks after my dog.
>> I help him tote up my
>> purchase, stow books away.
>>
>> He says You taught? I
>> had a young instructor -
>> she told us she’d just sold
>> her first story - a hundred dollars! -
>>
>> to Playboy. They said We won’t
>> use your first name, just
>> U. K. LeGuin. You have
>> a future. Bookseller said:
>>
>> just now a young man put
>> a poem in my hand - it’s here
>> somewhere. But all he could
>> find was a xerox of his wife’s
>>
>> handwritten journal - Roma
>> to Venezia - what they saw,
>> where they ate, the brusque
>> waiter, the train fares.
>>
>> Long ago. The ice hockey
>> has morphed into some
>> animated program.
>> Here’s a poem. It’s good
>>
>> to write something every day.
>> He has the musical voice
>> of a senior whisky-poet
>> and I’m touched, and leave.
Douglas Barbour
[log in to unmask]
https://eclecticruckus.wordpress.com/
Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuations 2 (UofAPress).
Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
Done in by creation itself.
I mean the gods. Not us. Well us too.
The gods moved into books. Who wrote the books?
We wrote the books. In whose dream, then are we dreaming?
Robert Kroetsch.
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