The Woman at The Bookstore

I’ve known her for centuries-
her dark glasses make rings around my youth.

Dark Hair,
Dark Eyes,
A winsome smile-

She is the light in my shadow.

“So you want to work here?”
Something burns in her eyes.

“Uh, Yeah,” I stammer.

She’s a clerk at a bookstore
in Harvard Square I frequented
as a youth.

Her dark hair,
she runs her fingers through it
as though grooming a secret.

She turns around in a flash
and hands me a piece of paper.

‘Her phone number? Could it be?’

“Please call Jake at …..”

then she turns away
and walks down the longest
hallway I’ve ever seen,
disappearing into files,
whispers, and other memories.

I wake up sagging,20121209_143347
knowing that she never was,
and the hallway she disappeared into
is the mouth of death.

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About Ben Dooling

I began this blog shortly after being diagnosed with terminal rectal cancer. It has since begotten a short book of poems, most of the poems came from here. Cancer has taught me more than it has taken. It has shown me my gifts, and what an examined life is.