Old childhood dreams, bestsellers of the past
Are now exhibited on Saturday
And share the marketplace with bums. You cast
A saddened look on them and their array.
(The greatest storyteller, long dead, took
To drink in small cafés, obnoxious
For years on end that followed his last book,
Notorious and yet anonymous.)
Young readers are now middle-aged. They sell
The long-lost remnants of a chilldhood room
When time and age turned attics into Hell
And deadlines mar the silence of the tomb.
You glanced into a copy; then we read:
"For your 12th birthday." And we shook our head.
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