At bookstore, 6/7/2011

My linen pants  have green grass stains, while the balding man in his seventies tapers his white beard and corrects his glasses; as an open book beckons his still strong posture. His nose is strict and his eyes sharp; he is handsome in his age as the overlay of palm prints on the corner of the second story window.  Cars waltz, backing out and filling parking spots in circling unison, paths crossed, accidents avoided. A girl in yellow and a girl in pink shuffle jump amongst adults, two upturned flower heads. The man in a brown jacket and brown pants shifts his shoulders, fixes his trousers, reaches deep into an inside pocket beside his left arm, withdraws a cell, shifts his shoulders again. Shakespeare weights down Poe, weights down worn black leather of a favorite bag. The ice in green tea frap  is long melted, cinnamon sticky fingers licked, the dinner bun eaten.