The Harvard Bookstore

I am feeling off today, but can’t put a finger on it.

Perhaps it is loneliness.

Or, maybe I just didn’t get enough sleep last night.

Either way, my muscle memory knows what to do,

And suddenly my legs are carrying me

Out of Westmorly Court,

A turn on Mass Ave,

Through the doors of the Harvard Bookstore,

And down the steps on the right,

Which will drop me off in the used books section.

Today, I’ve chosen to shake things up.

I visit the Shakespeare shelf

(only histories, no new comedies)

Before wandering circles around

The Remainders table

(40-80% off list price, you know)

Discounted notepads and cookbooks beg to be bought,

But nothing catches my eye, so I move on.

This aimless wandering is only a buildup, anyway,

For the main course of my visit: used fiction.

I start at the A’s, but quickly find myself at the F’s;

For weeks I’ve been searching to find my own copy of Gatsby,

But had only been met with three Tender Is the Night’s.

Until today, however, when my gaze met the object of my search.

Disappointment followed, marked by 7.50, paired with

Purple pen on the pages. Maybe next time.

Speaking of next time, the copy of 1984,

With whom I had last week made a bargain

(if you are still here on my next visit, I will take you with me)

Was absent from the shelves. I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.

Then, a Collector’s Library The Brothers Karamazov for 3.50?

“Don’t you already have that one,”

I hear a voice inquiring inside my mind,

To which I respond, well, yes, but you see,

My version is paperback, and this one is hardcover,

This one is smaller and has, albeit worn, gilted edges,

And we both know that I’m a sucker for gold pages.

This find is soon accompanied by a collection of

Poe’s short stories and a near-new Wuthering Heights,

A successful day of searching, I would say.

On rare occasions I will roam the upper floor of the bookstore,

But I prefer the comfort of used books and the people who seek them out

(besides, the upstairs children’s section’s floor creaks)

I wonder if the people around me have a list, perhaps in their heads, like mine.

I wonder who owned the Dostoyevsky before I,

Whose fingers wore down the shiny edges?

I wonder whose eyes this book has looked upon,

And I wonder where it will end up years from now,

When my hands are as frail as its binding and can

No longer turn its pages. Will any gold remain?

I leave the bookstore: Dostoyevsky, Brontë, and Poe

Following through the door behind me

Their works tenderly tucked in the tote on my hip.

I’m grateful for the company as I walk the path

Back to my dorm room bookshelf.

I don’t know when I’ll return,

Or who might next accompany me home,

(but let’s hope that the F section is more forgiving)

What I do know, however, is that

The Harvard Bookstore makes me feel less alone.