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Pricing books in the used book store.
A woman sits across from me reading Death
In Venice. Her calf is exposed, soft curves
pumping like a roadside oil rig just outside of Abilene.
Her legs are crossed.
She flexes her ankle up and down
twirls her hair with index finger
blows the heat from her coffee
and looks up from her book when she
is sure I'm not looking.
But I am always looking.
I want to make some elaborate metaphor
for her eyes
but they aren't that special. I've seen them
before on a thousand crowded streets.
I price a book worth a hundred and fifty dollars.
She doesn't know I deal in antiques.
We play eye tag. She pulls her dress
up a little more to reveal scabbed knees.
I am intrigued.
I don't show it I just
flip pages of dusty books
and think of all the eyes
that have scanned these pages.
This book here made it out
of Germany alive, through rockets’ red glare,
collapse of empires, genocide,
each line traced by the gloved hands of gentlemen.
Does the woman across from me know
we are making history right now.
Sunday night 7:45 Fort Collins Colorado.
She runs her fingers through her hair.
I spread the book open in my hands.
She looks up
I look up.
We both look
back down.
- Jason "Juice" Hardung
