This poem sums up what it sometimes feels like to be at the bookstore, looking out the window at the busy intersection.
Written by Z.G. Tomaszewski
38 Seconds at a Stoplight. I’m Inside the Bookstore.
Behind windows, I am your audience.
I stand to look and see you chewing time
by misremembering moments,
your look straight ahead says helpless.
With the green flash flicking light upon your face
I notice your discontent.
You accelerate beyond the intersection,
your tailpipe spits and sputters…
waves a curling black-tipped cloud;
exhausted you seem, but not sleepy.
Your brake-lights blink goodbye.
Tires tread away, trailing pavement,
track time.
I remain standing
on the other side, eyes glassed over.
From inside the store there are worlds of words—
spines gasp for fresh breath,
trophies that collect dust,
because I choose to read you.
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