Larry R. Brooks

the aged book store
had copies of Shakespeare's plays
in leather covers
that reeked like stories of yore:
I smelled the spice of a spine.

who wants a used book?
who's drawn to the rarity
of first editions
by dead white Europeans?
who's willing to smell of them?

I buy one volume
as hoary as a mummy
with cracked leather case,
and all the way out the door
I can smell soliloquies.



The humidity
of this yellow afternoon
sits on my body
like a damp and heavy dream:
waking will bring cool water.

This is summer's spite,
the heat and humidity
an umbrage that leads me to
the overwhelming question:
can this be global warming?

Even the breezes
are dripping like wet laundry,
a cowardly sky
as slow as a spider web
teases with a cloud or two.

I stay in my room
with the AC turned to high,
the yellow light
is the middle of a book:
I turn the page to a cool place.



Just across the road
over the three railed brown fence
in the green pasture,
seven chestnut deer:
they think they're in a forest.

The chip monks are gone,
but not because of our cat,
and today I saw
a small black snake in their hole:
out there, nothing goes to waste.

Mysterious holes
are appearing in our yard,
wet around edges:
some watery animal
rules the night with its digging.


Raining this morning,
From intermittent gray clouds
That hug the mountains
Like two lovers in a doze:
The roses need no water.

The wet river rocks
Reveal their secret colors,
Amber, gold, ecru,
And glitter in the rainfall:
The roses are watching me.

All doors are open,
And all the world is cleaner
In the rain today.
Now I will hearken to it
And will not trim the roses.


The banana bread
promising sweet on the tongue.
The leaf of fresh mint
green as an envious child:
the warm sunlight of morning.

Our bed is made now,
fresh flowers by the table,
the odor of breakfast
prepared by Leonarda
waits in the quiet with me.

We don't wait too long.
Because the sunlight grows
and the flowers fade,
I soon must give in to it:
eat slowly when it's quiet.


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