Poem for the book man

Eighty years passed,
The past will never last.
Heartfelt sorries just aren't enough to bring him back.
The truth of the matter is that he will forever be,
In my soul,
For he knew the ways to be happy and he knew how to make one sad.
He knew the stories to scare with and the stories to make you cry.
He was the book himself and an open one at that.

The book man came round many days a week,
I never missed him and I could always read him,
Like the books he gave me.