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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.