Farewell

Bookman's Alley is gone. This was my refuge once, my borrowed space..it held volumes of life, printed, photographed, salvaged, bound and stacked up high.. taxidermy, keepsake time capsules, and memories, mine alone -15 years' worth..of mid-day drop-ins, muted talks, random finds..quiet happiness of being alone. That was a gift, a hand-me-down I wore like I wore his jacket, cozy and torn and too big to fill. I have later shared it with others, as if it were a path, a passage that defined the rest of the way. Random diaries, moleskins, scrap notes -- few had postcards tucked in, flowers, photos..why would anyone ever abandon these ?..I'm convinced when you toss dead man's diary --  he dies twice..I keep letters forever, some 20 years old, some are new..I will read them again some day, and time will stand still for as long as I read, time is lost on old letters and books. Time was lost on me at the Alley..A sink hole, that place, only it trickled slowly, down and deep, and by now, away. Crossed the gait, as I like to think -- haunted, blessed and burdened by memories trapped. Its alive as ever, a portal, immortal. A thread of a hand-written note floats in time -- unabridged, and simple, and free.