A Poem Remembered by Colm Scully

Between these quays a book store
once overflowed its surplus
of frayed and fretted book spines.
Its fusty cluttered causeways
captured in urbane verses.
I hear the author’s voice.
Rummaging with the owner,
the thud and spring of book piles,
a search for Rousseau’s letters.
The banter between strangers
amid the dusty sparkle
of sun slits across shelves.
Recital at the counter.
Does any one else remember
his long forgotten poem?

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