LAST FOUR DAYS!

shouted the posters
on the bookshop's windows,
and I went inside
hoping for bargains.
I walked past every book,
two dollars each,
but whole sections vanished.
Science fiction: gone.
Children's books: gone.
Cartoons: gone.

And though this was only
a chain store
with standardized coffee
and part-time employees,
a month ago they offered
books for every need:
Mark Twain and John Grisham,
J.K. Rowling and Dr. Seuss.

I should have come then.
I should have taken my children,
as my mother took me to W. H. Smith's
and let me pick out
one paperback each week,
the books accumulating steadily,
pulling me more
than any but my oldest toys,
so that when we moved
I would not sleep
in the unfamiliar house
until my father
drilled holes for my bookshelves
and I could put my friends
back in their places.

And though I can make excuses,
I know I should have come
when there were still books left
under the sign saying POETRY,
the sign that an employee told me
I could have for free
because they would only
throw it away.