used books

sunday afternoon. sitting on this wooden reclining swivel chair in a dusty room. i'm surrounded by words held together by two covers. the band of writers, alive here and elsewhere, offer day trips to far off places; islands, trenches, cottages, clouds and the far creases of intricate minds. i sit here and keep their voices in line. i stack book upon book so that every cover is seen and each voice is offered a fair chance. monologues are extracted by curious hands, and then quieted again when a neighbouring book catches the opposite hand. customers are victims to grotesque secrets that are hidden within these 10" by 20" shelves. the passerbys naively brush over the risk takers, historians, poets, comedians, madmen, exaggerators, pessimists, liars, fakes, mothers, queens, saints, servants, hermits, bachelors, lovers, overeaters, heros and frauds. everyone one of them has been leveled to a small portable size. their only wish is to be heard. but they will never be themselves. their voices have been sacrificed to their new owners. the tug of war of ideas, opinions, experiences and imaginations starts once a person picks up one of these books i am so diligently babysitting. i sit here in this swivel chair hoping that each story will find a home with a warm-hearted owner. as hard as i try to keep these books safe, i can’t protect them forever. after a monetary exchange, these bound pages and the mysterious characters they hold will have to stand their own on the dirty streets of this wild city. but for another sunday afternoon they are warm and busy, whispering tales to each other, while i sit here in my swivel chair.