Walking through a store                                
It smells clean and fresh and cold
Filled with anything

One could ever hoard
Searching aisles painted gold
I’m alone thinking

Found a  hidden book
Journal, I stretch to reach it
Bound in rich leather

Take more than one look
Atmosphere tries to bleach it
What has it weathered?

Pages unnumbered
Etched with words of ideal love
Written by a child

Not for sale, remembered
An accident from above
Let me read a while.