Books
Books
Books line the shelves
in the living room,
the bookcase in the hall,
the cubbyholes in my desk.
They lie on the coffee table,
stacked on end tables,
and on bedside tables.
At least it used to be like that
before I had to move.
I miss my books, only a few left.
I had read all of them,
some more than once,
and some were a bit ragged.
But I got pleasure from
there just being there
where I could see them.
I don’t buy books much now.
I get them from the library.
Somehow it isn’t the same
reading somebody else’s books.
There’s no ownership involved,
no sense of coming back to it
and savoring it all over again.
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