They walk to her shop on starry nights
and sometimes through rain or snow.
People who like the quiet of
an almost empty space
with low lighting and long tables
and dusty particles
that drift through lamplight
to settle on worn leather chairs.
A place that smells like coffee
and sounds like hushed memory
where they can painlessly
phase outside themselves
to wander and explore
the battlefields of history
or coastal highways that
take them to imaginary lovers
or tales of mystery and lore
that can’t possibly be true.
But oh that place, that midnight bookstore
filled with noisy tomes
clamoring with words and ideas
and invisibly drawn maps to other worlds
is so very precious
and worth getting out of bed for
even in the dark on a humid night
even in secondhand pajamas and slippers.
But especially when insomnia
can’t be shaken or stirred
and the brain craves that soothing balm
of bindings and pages and the weight
of this amazing thing,
this lovely portal of discovery.
