Glare of industrial lights
ill-reflected on grey floors
old white-washed walls
in rented warehouse
to host a sale of writers dreams,
boxes primly placed on plastic tables
securing ordered books
in alphabetical tether.
I look for a leap of turmoil
to light dull regimen,
find a writer who speaks outside the box,
who cannot be locked in dust.
Fingers trace assorted collections,
some answer to my touch, come to my attention
in voices that defy repression -
I choose them, carry them home
in embroidered bags.
Katherine L. Gordon