Leslie Kleinberg
lkleinberg@hotmail.com

12 AM August 4

There's a ghost in the hallway, blowing music
    over the rims of the vases,
Thumping on the carpet with a
heavy tread. It's fairly windless.
I heard a rake clatter in the garden,
though the crickets don't mind.

Girls hid from a painting at my party;
     they said they saw witches.

I am transferring notes from one book to another.
(So mate the journals and telephone Sappho.)
So there's one secret I can't tell you: I
think of you often. Come visit, I'll take you
riding, to see historic spots and
photo opps. If you are reading, I am
(not)/(un)comfortable.

Be forewarned, I told you so.
I try to gently let you go, and we both know it.
 

12 PM August 4

There is more merchandise here than books:
Feng Shui diagrams, scented candles, beanie babies, country patterned napkins.
This bookstore has nowhere to sit.
A sampling of titles: Lovely Me, No Time to Die, Every Man Should Try.
Standing with notebook balanced on a shelf
I wish I felt more like writing.
A chapter called, "I acquire a wound."
(My misunderstood subject line caused a final rift.)
I've snagged a chair!
Next to a wall of blank books (the sign asks Why So Cheap?).
Confident Cooking, Celtic Knotwork, The Art of the Nude.
I'll keep up this inventory
Or else I'll go get lunch.