When I come in in the morning
there's no one
in the room/workspace

Down the aisles
I see stacks of books
but not a soul

looking at their spines/faced-out covers

Instead, it's just me and these

some of whom don't belong here
some of whom
should be in other rooms/sections of this bookstore

I search them out, these misshelved artists
hold them in my arms to place them into the resort bin, a box made of wood

eventually, someone on this low-staff day will come and collect them

put them on a cart and cart them away
to their proper place