I wrote this in Harvard Book Store on Mass Ave. while watching a little girl pick a book out with her mother. I was there for a poetry reading by Rita Dove, who by the way, is amazing. She speaks as though she’s singing, some inner rhythm pulsing through her.
She twirls her hair between her index and her thumb,
shifting her weight from one foot to the other
before choosing a book by her mother’s bidding.
It’s Calvin and Hobbes, not a dense read by any means,
but her mother doesn’t stop her from sitting down
in the purple cushioned window seat,
propping her feet up, and flipping through
the pages and pages of pictures.
I can see her mother browsing in the corner of my eye
But it’s the little girl who makes me want to read again.
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