On Finding One’s Voice
I used to walk
across
Belmar bridge
to the
Paperback Exchange
where the shopkeeper’s bell
went both ways
alerting the owner
of a customer’s presence
while simultaneously announcing
the incoming olfactory tsunami of old books to customers.
Shelves
packed to the ceiling, with
paperback stacks spilling onto the floor
in a visual assault
of identical covers
featuring
discount Fabio cradling corseted females
with overflowing bosoms.
I used to walk
across the store
to the back wall
and
climb the library ladder,
up into the presence of greatness:
Camus
Rand
Solzhenitsyn
Plath
Bukowski
Wilde
Jung
Nin
Dostoevsky
I used to walk
along the beach at dawn
looking for bits of driftwood,
shells, and sea glass
there, against the polyphony of crashing waves
mixed with seagull calls,
searching for my own voice.