It's oh so quiet in the shop today, just a smattering of books have walked out the door. Sultry jazz plays on the stereo, vanilla bean melts burn away leaving a lingering yummy scent, and I'm reminded of another day not so long ago in the bookshop...
Moments in a day
Outside, it’s quiet and sunny.
A dusty ute drives by, working dogs bark.
My shop flag says “Books”,
It blows up and flips over its pole,
Twisted now.
Rain last Sunday, I remember.
Dead lambs scatter brown hills.
It’s August. Ugh. Wind.
I must take the chimes down,
They are adding to my sleepless nights.
“Emergency Sex” faces outwards,
A man, green woolen jumper with holes,
Wanders in, picks it up. Puts it down.
Wanders out.
Another fool fooled by that old adage.
I call it the town drop-in centre.
My friend brings me rosemary
To hang nearby.
It helps heavy shoulders deal with unsolicitored stories.
My shoulders. Their stories.
Old man whose wife died recently from cancer,
Today he tells me, daughter-in-law too last week.
He joined the men’s shed and is bringing me art
From Boorowa to sell.
I never remember his name.
Now, buds on the tree outside are gently swaying.
I sip tea and wonder if this is where I am to be planted.
They say, you should grow
Where you are planted, but a moment in a day
Can change everything.