all my books into boxes,
ready to be hauled
away
to some dump.
what are you doing, i asked
her as i came
home from work
and slowly opened
up each box.
i stared at my worn
copies
of books. updike, cheever,
salinger.
plath and sexton.
levine and bukowski.
books i've been reading
since high school.
you've read them all, she replied.
i need room on
the shelves for knicknacks.
i'm collecting porcelain
pigs and cows
and i've run out of window
sills to put them on.
No comments:
Post a Comment