there was a time
when i came home from work
and my wife at the time,
lulabelle
had packed all of my books
in boxes,
stacked them on
the living room floor.
there they were, updike
and cheever,
john irving, bukowski
and plath,
salinger and philip levine,
biographies, essays,
poetry. all of them
ready to go out the door.
books i've had and loved
since i was in college.
why, i asked her, as i unpacked
them, giving her hell,
why are you getting rid
of my books,
and she said, you've already
read them, and i need
more room for my collection
of porcelain pigs
on the shelves.
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