All who know his shop call him Harry,
though shop called “Nelson’s Books.”
Dmitri call own boss Harry,
only because he ask to do so.
Not mathematician, Dmitri have counted
hairs left on Harry’s head
so many time that sure: three left,
very long, most carefully arrangéd
in halo formation, and quite right so,
for Harry saint of book if ever was.
And in old age, like Zen priest,
Harry out of patience with almost all
but those who share love.
Need clerk, like Dmitri, who care
for no one, nothing, only, like Harry,
for truth, like Dmitri, for live soul.
This morning, Harry say “Morning.”
Behind rimless eyeglass, dark pouch.
“Morning,” Dmitri respond, think,
hope you not die yet, old man.
If die, who left to believe that word
on page in black print matter,
who left to love reader,
who left to run this store?
