Homemade Cider

My friend worries his daughter
might stop taking drugs
prescribed by her psychiatrist
and become suicidal again.
It's winter and I'm closing early,
people hurry past my used book shop
covering their mouths with their hands
or bending their heads into the wind,
but my friend needs to talk and tonight
he's brought me some mysteries
and a little horror for trade.
She'll be eighteen soon and then
it's up to her, he says. What if
she decides not to continue?
I'm taking books out of his box,
placing them in stacks on my desk,
trying to determine values,
what I owe him. Finally, I tell him
everything he's doing will only help,
thinking love is never enough.
We continue to talk about
our ex-wives, his long days,
my trouble with the government.
By the time I walk him to his car
we resolve to get together.
He has three gallons of homemade cider
fermenting in his garage.
They'll be ready soon.

• • • • •

"When berries come in, berries come in, they don't wait."
(Overheard in a Secondhand Bookstore)

She doesn't mean berries,
Of course, she's talking poetry

With her friend when she sees
A book of verse.Ê From memory

She recites a poem read to her
As a child, a poem that echoes

With the voice of her mother
Down these dusty rows.

She plucks the book
Off the shelf and gladly pays the price,

Which is when she makes her remark,
Which is why I begin to write.