This poem was written after a visit to the Poconos. While out, enjoying the fall weather I found a small bookstore. The image of the books, the old couple who owned it, the smells and sounds of that small Pennsylvania town all inspired me. “The Booksellers” captures what I saw, smelled.and felt that day. 
The Booksellers

Browsing and looking, waiting to find the perfect story, some way back on the shelves were covered with dust,

and fingerprints of the authors in their printed glory. 

Monuments to recorded thoughts like private diaries on commercial display and I the eavesdropping outsider, was caught. 

The bookselling trade,

thoughts, all printed and stacked on shelves,

humanity’s record,

the author’s record,

never too fade.

Keeping track of titles bought and sold,

older woman behind the counter doing snooping of her own, 

trading and dealing in titles new and old.

The day went on like all days do,

sun moving across the sky and somewhere an author will give such a day it’s written due. 

Then those author’s afternoon words become commercial fuel.for the booksellers,

selling plots and thoughts in printed form,

and commerce gives them flight like birds. 

The day ends with a new moon.and life goes on beginning for some and ending for others,

poets writing poems to.remember days and ones gone to soon. 

Some of those memories will find their way to the bookseller’s.shelf,

Stories written like eulogies and sermons,

printed author tributes to life and self.
(and many a small mountain town) 
T.S. Deary 

11/12/16 – 11/18/16