Bookshop Jack

Musty, dusty, dank, foxed,
the day doesn't matter,
just two words.
Looking in the library
said drowned, not buried,
buried would be fine,
and the smell has to be so dry.
Dried ink has no smell,
no smell is timeless,
bookshop shelves,
dry forest of rhyme,
no more nose, still so alive.

Buried but marked,
referenced, permanently ripe,
ripe ancient age remembered.
Where's the index -
A to evermore -
a sweaty finger search,
sticky deodorant.
There at last it lies,
the mouth of time,
the pseudo signature, Bookshop Jack,
and Jack can now drop dead;
two words, still so alive.