The Used & Rare Bookstore
by S. Lieto
me—child of a carpenter
who built houses down
the block from here—deep
in the musty-lit stacks churning
spines, nose-bridge in a book
about urban iron railings
embellished with diagrams
& equations: how to calculate
a structurally perfect curve,
measurements for pineapple
finials, front-step portraits:
homes where people lived
& changed, & pages thicken
with foundation walls
& bevelled metal & proper
handrail lengths. I imagine
skating my palm along a stable
& installed railing, leading
to a greyscale, welcoming,
& well-decorated kitchen
with wall-slants, feverish
arrows, the z-axis of line-work
sketches & unit-driven
suggestions. In my apartment
I scotch-taped childhood
photos on my bedroom door.
There she is in a navy t-shirt,
eating microwaved french toast.
There she is, hot-pink toy camera
askew in her hand.
In a parking-lot, there I go
again, running away
from something
out of frame. The next page
lists measurements for rosette
spacing. In this context,
a rosette is an iron-cast flower
resembling a rose. As in, like me
it is not a rose.