Not everything that happened at Gleebooks yesterday morning would fit into fourteen lines:
Rhyme #8: Selling books.
I hauled some books – one case, two boxes,
unloved, unread, or loved but old –
bright-eyed, tail bushy like a fox’s
to where they said, ‘Books bought and sold.’
Alas! The man said, ‘Wilfred Owen?
No poems unless by Leonard Cohen!
Though your books may be a cut above
Dan Brown, Dan Steele or Eat, Pray, Love,
they mostly fail to pass my muster.’
The reject pile grew mighty high.
‘You don’t want this one. Nor do I.
Rooster once, now feather duster.’
He shot them down, my flock of ducks
and bought four books for twenty bucks.
Me fail? I fly! 