I am at the Mall.

There is a bookshop here

the one closest to my house.

The owner is my age.

And like me, is a quiet man. 

Unlike me, he smiles

every time our eyes meet.

Next to where he sits

the sun enters the shop

from thick plate glass.

Sunlight caresses

his wrinkled hand.

I can see through his pale skin

Where his veins are swollen

 He is busy reading a book.

The page reflected in his glasses

has letters and words, as big 

as the Meta sign across the road.

The light is tinted green

the shade of a new leaf. 

Trucks, and buses, and cars  

appear blue over grey road.

The men, and women, 

look flaky yellow, floating like dust

in a beam of light. I turn back

to the bookshelf, ‘Archeology’.

My fingers trail the 

uneven row of spines 

stopping to nudge a book.

 With my bent neck, I notice 

my crooked fingers, and the title

‘Bones of the Maya: Studies of

Ancient Skeletons’. I turn 

to look at… Don’t find him. Where’s he?

The desk is empty. Sun is sinking

behind the glass now turning blue. 

An icy hue hangs inside the shop. 

Sprawled on the grainy cedar floor

are stretched shadows of his desk 

cold like the top of a coffin box. 

Through the cracks a light shone

like a spirit he emerges from the vault 

Lifting the casket cover.

• 21 December 2022