A Book Dealer's Triptych

1.

His obligations throbbed like aching joints.

That day in Richmond accomplished nothing,

Seen in retrospect, a discourtesy,

Though understandable, for which he'd pay.

What might come next he couldn't clearly see.

That book he'd paged through once, about the

leaves,

Rustled through his speeches. He'd have to find

That fellow sometime, have him in to read.

2.

He'd seen his mother in a dream. She'd paced

The floor, anxious for news from Fredericksburg,

Then sat down at the table, where they passed

The newspapers back and forth in silence

All over again. His house in Harleigh

Cemetery would be ready on cue.

He'd grasped his lot of hands, and let them go.

Yet something felt undone he meant to do.

3.

The eulogy, thought Ingersoll, sufficed.

He saw his book of lectures on a shelf

So far in the future it made him gasp.

At breakfast next day nothing dismayed him,

Not the plate or silver, not the linen

Nor even the drudgery of dining.

His derelictions eased, immaculate,

He celebrated Speeches, Lectures, Leaves.