On the Avenue

I'm on the avenue. On the left a house – at the corner above - figures of stone, on the right – a bookstore... A book. Yours! I'm glad. Not seen you for ages! I leaf it over, reading intently – You bury yourself in a verse. An image arises. Time bygone, Eternity come beckons a poet in marble and lines – as a book on a shelf not as a needle in the haystack – hide-and-seek: into pages to merge into rhymes from petty sum, from cruel fate. Poetry – element. News is reproach – a lump in the throat. The house at the corner, up on the right – a woman of stone and two children.