Books collect dust.
That’s what they do.
Retired on shelves
From the penthouse
To the basement floor.
Now and then,
A familiar visitor arrives
And leaves with one, maybe more.
Open—
They’ll relax on a park bench
Or spend a lazy evening
Reminiscing on the couch,
Sharing the same stories as before.
But vacations end
And they’ll return home
Closed—
Saving their secrets
As they’re accustomed to.
2 comments:
This is quasi-inspired by Chris' poem today. I really need to read more.
I like the open and closed lines and how they set the scene for comfort, and then boredom. I like that idea too. It's not sadness in the sitting on the shelf, but the idea that the secrets can't come out, that is the issue. Dude, I haven't read a book since like June. It's depressing.
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