things would never be the same

i came

home early from work one day,

the ex-wife,

number two,

was packing up all of my books,

books i've bought

and read

since the ninth grade.

they were all boxed

and ready to go

out the door when i arrived.

not a second

too late.

what's going on, i asked her.

what are you doing

with all my books?

my Raymond Chandler,

Larkin and Lowell,

my Cheever and Updike,

my Plath and Sexton,

my Raymond Carver

and Bukowski,

my Mark Twain.

i'm giving them away, she said.

i need more room

on the shelves

for nick knacks.

maybe the homeless would like

things to read.

then i reminded her

of a place called

the public library.

what else was there to say?

things would never be the same.