Poetry

The Fall, 27 (271.)

Today, I worship
at the altar of paper
back books,
and I know it should be
paperback
but I like the little separation
I’ve created.
I open the front cover of the book,
and hold it down.
I open the back cover of the book,
and hold it down.
I turn a page or two near the front,
and hold them down.
I turn a page or two near the back,
and hold them down.
My hands continue down the line,
turning a few pages at a time,
and pressing them gently to the chair.
Altar. I mean altar.
It is a chair, though.
A nice old-school rocking chair
that my parents received as a gift
from some half-mumbled acquaintance,
but they didn’t have room in their house
so they offered it to me.
I accepted it.
Now it sits in the corner near the window, and
I hardly ever sit in it,
it’s mostly become
a repository for my face masks.
Every now and then, when I’ve
scraped up enough extra cash
and purchased a book or three,
I use the chair
as my place of supplication.
I ask the books to treat me well,
as I have treated them;
I promise them love and wonder and
reverence, and in return,
I wish them to speak volumes
beyond their respective singularities.
I also make them supple, each spine
bending so slow,
so their pages turn like silk
in a summer breeze.
These are the actions in which I believe.
Pages turning, spirit learning.
Time to read another book.

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