different

there was a day
when I came home from work,
every book
I owned
or had bought since I was
a kid,
from salinger to updike,
to grisham,
was packed away in boxes,
taped up
sealed and sitting by
the door.
eight large boxes
of my books.
I asked my significant
other,
whom I was related to by
marriage at that point
in my life
what was going on.
you've read them all, she
said.
I need room for my knick
knacks
and things on the shelves.
maybe there are poor
people out
there who would like to read
these books.
slowly, with steam
coming out of my ears,
I ripped off the tape
and put the books
back onto the shelf.
she shook her head
and called me selfish.
I mumbled bad things
and asked
her if she'd ever heard of
the public library.
we were different.
not on the same page,
not in the same book,
not in the same building.