The bookstore lights were off.
Its window glass reflected red neon
from the theater marquee across the street.
If you peered inside,
if you shaded your eyes with your hands
you could see thousands of books
stacked and racked
their spines titillating to a man of words
as what’s under a skirt is to a man of perverse intention.
It brought me a strange sense of joy to imagine
the liminal space between the seen and unseen words
written on pages there in the dark
that can be anything you want them to be,
triggering the tingle-lust of a voyeur
who had found the perfect open curtain
and was now getting the eyeful he desired.