the last day i left the store
i looked over my shoulder
at the closed door —
i knew i’d never be back
to browse the books
scan the pages, search
through all the words
for some clue as to what this means.

i mopped the floors, of course
because no one wants an empty store
with filthy floors — i cleaned the toilets well
wiped down all the counters, said
do you need anything else
to no one in particular — i knew
i’d never be back
to sip the coffee or say the words
of encouragement, offer to find some book
or point out some illustration
on some nearly forgotten page
to a stranger who might have someday
become a friend.

the last day, when I left the store
i knew I’d never be that me again
nor would i read those books
thumb through those pages
or say those words to anyone at all.