If I Were a Poet

This is the bookstore—I’m sure of it—
though it looks strange without the rain.
But it must be
—the last letter in the neon sign is still dark.
Remember how we laughed for hours at
“new and used book?”

I don’t want to go in, but
before I can protest,
my feet have walked through the door.
The smell is different—
there were roses in a vase, I think—
but now just mold and smoke.

A man, with gray hair and glasses
too large for his face,
asks if I need help.
I say I’m just browsing,
but of course I know what I’m looking for.

Yes, there, there it is—
the book I read to you
that rainy night
until the morning sun
lifted the last bit of you heavenward.

The neon through the window
paints the pages pink and red.
I press the paper to my lips—
it is still warm.