Not Enough

A boy in his twenties is in an old bookstore

he wears a long sleeves orange shirt

and a snap cap hat

greeting every new person

who enters the large wooden room.

I gather ten books of poetry

and sit down on a bench

ready to lose myself in unfamiliar lines.

He is limping around the shelves

touching postcards and maps

books of foreign languages,

asking the salesperson again

how much money

does he need to buy

a map,

a postcard,

a notebook.

He holds some coins in his hand.

The lady beats around the bush:

you still need more,

you don't have enough.

He starts limping again

mumbling inarticulate sound,

saying hellos to readers

as if it was the only word both knew.

When he greets

I can see a gap between his front teeth.

The books are spread on my lap,

I'm not sure if I want any of them

or anything from them.

I feel my son flip in the belly

and exit the building

mumbling the prayer

that he will have enough

that he will not need more.