there was a time
when your ex-wife packed
all of your books
into boxes. labeling
the sides with a black
magic marker. books.
your catcher in the rye,
with its worn red cover,
your mark twain. your
sexton and plath.
updike and cheever,
even your world according
to garp in paperback.
the boxes were stacked
by the door ready for pick
up by the purple heart,
or goodwill, somebody
that was going to take
them away, and when you
asked why she was doing
this, she said. the poor
need to read too, plus
you've already read these
books, some twice or
three times. not to
mention I need room on
the shelves for my
knick knacks and the baskets
that i'm weaving.
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