The Bookman
5/21/52 - 6/30/97

he loved his books
we all knew that, knew him,
right from the first moment

on his darkened wall he marked the passage of years
with Frodo and Sam, clutching the one ring
he quested with them, deep into Mordor
he led the way for us behind Aragorn

too, he sailed the seas with Ahab
hunting the white whale of his dreams
strong he was, and full of health
both eyes bright and clear
        not dimmed by cataract clouds

he was mighty within those pages
brave and beloved by every princess he rescued

he knew the restlessness of 2am
a passage haunting his memory, a need to find it,
the easy satisfaction of the words rediscovered

he knew the whisper of fresh pages
the shudder of an unbroken binding
as it first revealed its secret depths

he knew the call of authors, names well-loved,
a new volume he had to own at any price
from across the seas they came to him
nestled in his enfolding bookshelves

hardback, paperback, first edition, imported, used
fantastic dreams, impossible voyages
scientific marvels, harsh unrealities
these were his universe
the starship of his mind adrift in countless worlds

he understood that magic was truth
science merely an excuse to explain what we already knew
everything possible did exist somewhere
        even if we could not see:
unicorns, gryphons, dragons of pink and blue and paisley

he knew the fulfillment of the last word
like the sudden loss of a friend
and knew, too, the joyful return
when the first page turned once more
his fingers danced upon every cover
coaxing their mysteries into sunlight

in the end there was no sunlight
only shadows and closed curtains
and silent rows of old friends
waiting for the final breath of day

they sold his books

in boxes, crates, brown taped and markered
they loaded the pieces of his soul
the auditors came, passed judgement over a lifetime
        two dollars per box
the used book store, home to unwanted memories,
took them in, separated them
        scattered them to the winds

now I know he is gone

or

a picture, a crystal fragment of a time that could be:
a lonely girl wanders through the store
uncertain of her life her future what she wants and needs
sees the cover, picks up just one book

her world is momentarily opened to include
a disk upon the backs of elephants
        riding a turtle through time
a hero with a blue unicorn
a git in a bathrobe flying to space in a shoe
she opens herself to newnesses beyond imagination

(a boy becomes eternal friends with David Eddings)
(Steven Brust is given as a gift)
(a child learns the story of Saint Camber)

like a keeper of birds he kept them close to him
the birds have flown in a thousand directions
each a part of him
and so he lives on in a thousand ways

a thousand lovers of books
will look at the imprint upon the page
and wonder, who was he that loved these words?

the last page turns

I wonder if he saw the sun
those last few days
I wonder if he knew that we
will remember him each time
        the page turns to reveal a new friend
        knowing it will be a reflection of his face
        smiling back

the story ends
not happily, but ever after

the book closes

11/20/97, 4/28/99