Poem: Private Library
O, authors of infinite books, scribes of forever,
I hear your cries
emanating from the shelves
in the wood-paneled velvet-draped library
where ladies and gentlemen store their unread First Editions.
You, Benjamin Franklin and George Eliot and Harriet Beecher Stowe,
you have become collectible, stacked side-by-side slave-ship style.
Unlikely neighbors. Involuntary intimates.
The words and ideas contained inside the flat-bound hand-tooled something-or-other leather,
the thoughts that made you valuable when you lived,
the pronouncements that you authored — this is why you’re still remembered
like childhood afternoons of cut grass and lakeside breezes.
and not what they say
now makes these blessed books a valuable commodity,
let us henceforth commence to composing troves of tomes
with print runs of one.
We’ll snatch from vapor the kind of luck you can only buy, then one day in the cold dead future,
when it will be difficult for us to fully enjoy,
our work will be worthy of collection by the better sort of readers,
the hoarders with no interest in reading.