Lines Composed While Tending a Cash Box at a Second-Hand Book Sale

They lie in faded rows, ten cents apiece –
today half price, tomorrow knifed, fine shred
recycled to wipe counters, noses – cease
as books whose authors are no longer read.
Our friend Will Shakespeare knew this when he
penned one hundred fifty sonnets, more or less,
in honor of two loves, young he, dark she –
just who they were is anybody’s guess.
His poems, and others, have survived the years
but most are lucky if they last a week.
Pulitzers, even, quickly disappear,
remaindered on store shelves where browsers seek
a bargain.  Yes – this poet’s hopes must sag  –
but still she scribbles lines on paper bags.

Margaret Robinson
Swarthmore