Silence.

empty Monday mornings.
it's all radiator clicks.
shout to my echo
as I sort through returns.
ordering is just a guide;
today I sneak Le Guin
into the non-fiction section.
sun-bleached computer in the corner,
mica-flecked, blares 7/4 music
through distorted, tinny speakers
like it's 2001.
thuds on the counter.
yellowed, fraying pages
rasp as they resist their place in the pile.
doors hiss.
breeze intrudes on the almond rot.
rush over and pause the music.
give a nod, abashed.
resume my role.