At your book signing

We shuffled forward inch by inch,
until I was alongside the antique wagon wheel
with its rotting spokes and rusted iron straps
Inch by inch,
until I was level with the front doors of the book store
which had been pulled from their hinges and set aside
Inch by inch,
until I could just glimpse your wiry hand gripping a pen
signing your looping name across books, cd’s, and loose leafs of paper

And closer, until I could make out the print of your shirt
and the sameness of our eyes.

Later,
I was speeding home at several hundred inches per second
your new book riding shotgun in the passenger seat
slowly reading itself as wind from the ripped convertible top
came in and turned the pages one by one,
and on,
until the very last page was turned
and your book closed itself
with the small humble sound of paper touching paper