Between all the Pages

I have a problem with my eyes Being bigger than my brain. I mean I have a weakness Of owning more books than water makes rain. I purchase them by the dozen Whenever they’re on sale, At the local bookstore I buy them galore Smiling inside without hesitation or fail. No subject too large or near too small As I stack them high on shelves and walls In bedrooms, closets And out in the hall. They’re down in the basement and the attic as well, I admit I’m addicted to even the smell Of an Emily Dickinson, Thoreau or Frost, Or MK Rawlings, whatever the cost. I love a good mystery But history’s my fav While God, religion, and good grammar I always crave. The problem I have is reading them all Cover to cover whenever they call, Morning or evening, midnight or midday Surrounded by books and all that they say Keeps my mind moving and grooving along And points to some places I’ll go when I’m gone. The day when the angels come ‘round up my soul I’ll think of these books as silver and gold. And leave them to someone who Might even see Between all the pages A man like me.