London had its
Duck Lane, where
witch trial tomes
and bound-up
sermons rotted
unread, amid
the novels of the day.
New York once had
"Book Row" which ran
down Bowery way
from Union Square
to Astor, mostly on
Fourth Avenue. Bums
in the doorways, dust
everywhere, piles
of books on carts,
sidewalks clogged
with the unsold —
Three dozen shops
catered to the
improvident collector,
the impoverished scholar.
On a bad day
you came out sneezing,
found nothing,
On a good day
the unexpected treasure
that would change your life
emerged from behind
some other title, tucked
and forgotten, its price
a pittance. Better
than venery and its venison
outcome was biblio
mania and the small cry
of surprise, the fear
that the clerk would recognize
your steal and up-price it,
the moment you came
into the light again,
that volume clasped tight,
as though you had robbed
a bank, or jousted a knight
to win the book of spells.
O, the things we found
and carried off, those
rainy Saturdays
when Book Row called!
