Shelves murmur like confession
the dust rewrites the years;
a poet buys his childhood
for seven volunteer tears
The owner pours him coffee
the record hums of jazz;
they trade their worn philosophies
on love and what it was
Outside the rain applauds them
for talking without plan;
inside the words keep aging
yet never lose their span
By closing time they’re laughing
their loneliness set free—
for literature’s the weather
where souls agree to be