To the man in the bookshop on the day of the Paro in Palermo, Buenos Aires 290519
I
will die for you
Or I’ll live for you
It doesn’t mean a shit to me
Thanks for the coffee! Thanks,
and thanks for showing me the books
without wanting nothing in return but maybe another soul in the world who reads what you consider to be tip top
literature. (The top notch literature)
Even if you had to make it in yourself for them to actually read the material.
Can I ask you Why you didn’t strike on the day we met?
Was it a money- cause or boredom? You kept dusting of newly made old books but we did talk and we did drink coffee, you seemed to be another young hipster with a pledge to read the printed word
You held Kafka cups in your fumbling hands and helped tourists find books
You might have been aspiring to smoke cigars and grow a beard
but maybe you tired of cigarettes half way through and lived without that prejudice inflicted onto you
(that you had to like tobacco to be intellectual)
Any way, I just wrote to say thanx.
Your existance saved me from a boring day.
Now I have your book and this poem, to cover up a whole in my chest,
that just now started reminding me
of it’s ache.