Finding words on the street
Harriet wandered the gift shop and flicked through a few books on the shelf. The History of Skeletons. A Short History of Time-wasting. A Brief History of Time. She heard a child ask an adult for a game. "Play the poetry game," was the response. "Find the things you see in poems." So Harriet did.
Plums, cooling in a fridge, she saw by the Blackwell's sign. Baby shoes, never worn next to the book entitled 'Scribing the Soul.' The Applicant,talk talk talk-ing near the Art in a Box. Living inside a novel, gobbled up into six hundred and fifty pages, the houses, the streets, the snow, the river, the roses, the girl, the sun, the dresses and the voices, the old, sad people, the waltz music, everything, alongside a map of the world, as big as three stacked tables.
Harriet piles a few titles into the crook of her arm and follows the call of 'Night Life of the Trees'. I could be happy in this book, she thinks, tucking herself in a corner, pressed against the fire exit, flapping the pages of the book. It's plastic smell was good. It was good to be holding something clean, and new in her hands. We should always have something clean, and new nearby. "I am clean and new", says Harriet to a chap that walks by, smelling of an ensuite bathroom, just as he sneezes into the wide open air.