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Attracted by books

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attracted by books

and convivial looks

I cheerfully stop

at a trendy new shop

where pricey books lay

on arty display


the shelves, almost bare

uncluttered and spare

have a notice which states

they’re reclaimed from old crates

though miniature cacti


lined up like ducks

between the sparse books


business is thin

there’s no-one else in


I very soon see

this isn’t for me

nothing to read

nothing you’d need

just puzzling selections

of photo collections

niche little volumes of not very much

black and white pictures of nothing as such

no landscapes, no faces

no people, no places

nebulous titles give nothing away

nothing to hint what they’re trying to say

whose ideal gift would

be photos of driftwood?


a hipster, role unknown

lounges with his phone

idly typing

jadedly swiping

straight outta Hoxton

no effing socks on

not there to assist

he pretends I don’t exist



what is this place?

this vast waste of space

who even looks

at these fathomless books?

what do they do

when they’re done leafing through?


the hipster no doubt

knows what it’s about

one glance can tell

if I’m hip clientele

but his face says forget it

he knows I don’t get it


but I still make a show

of pretending I know

making quite plain

my lofty disdain

sorry my friend

this is way behind trend

too hackneyed and worn

I am stifling a yawn

I came to be thrilled

and I leave unfulfilled


but I haven’t a clue

just who’s fooling who

Edited by Sir_Nigel

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