On the second day, the library book sale is lonely, picked over, the long tables mostly empty, the remaining books collected together in piles and rows at the ends.  I had come here the day before, spent little, but had walked out with much, several books I had been meaning to read, and now here, like a chance meeting on the street, here they were, selling for almost nothing.  I needed a box to get them all back to my apartment.  But today, the second and last day of the sale, I walk through, and where yesterday the room had been full of people, some carrying a few books under their arm, others walking awkwardly under all of the weight, today there is almost no one.  I browse the stacks, and pick out a few interesting looking books.  I then look around for the books that look least likely to sell, the lonely homeless books, a collection of poetry by someone I had never heard of, a book of world war two stories, a scuffed and warped horror anthology from 1980, and I pick them up, pay my two dollars, and walk out feeling satisfied, the book itch stratched at least for now.