Beyond the Blue Door

If the Universe will grant me a gratuitous grant
there is a bookstore with a bright blue door
It will have dark metal filigree and shamefully
seem Hobbit-like in its stance

Inside, books, of course,
with a predilection for the occult, too
A window display of meandering monsters,
perching pretty when seen straight on,
wandering again when gaze is gone
Discomfort will make some patrons scrape
for supposition,
or hobble out the Hobbit hole
(Either way works for me)

Honeyed sunlight will slant through
windows covered in slates of stained glass
Be hard pressed to sell such beauties
but if a wide-eyed girl
"has to have that" for her mother,
I'll cave instantly

A man comes in every Tuesday,
never buys a thing, I know,
and helps himself to tea at the caddy in the corner,
using the same red-chipped mug every time
(I won't say a word)
I know he's here for the quiet
It's P.G. Tipps, after all
I'll sigh deep with understanding

Graphic novels and comic books huddle with Nabokov,
in between Gaiman, Pratchett, Butcher
Across the aisle sits East of the Sun, West of the Moon
Where the Wild Things Are and Dinotopia
will quarrel over the best island
(They will be separated)

Near that unraveling rug
is the reading corner with a rocker that creaks
Can't seem to oil away the crik crik crik
Besides,
pretty sure it's a Universal Law
that rocking chairs creak,
along with babies crying, Hobbits with hairy feet, and skies coming in
shades of blue
(But not as brilliant or azure as my front door)

I can see it all,
the world beyond the blue door
Maybe there are vines on the outside walls,
with hanging flowers like my mama plants
A winding path or two, perhaps?
(I'll only take one if there's a shortage on pathways)
But no matter,
'cause inside is wood-paneled and sure
Cozy and book-lined, and waiting for me