Shelf Dreams
Poetry
I
shall die
but before
that day, I hope
to create something
good enough to stay, wait
for that other child of ten
dropped at the local library
branch while Mom runs Saturday errands
left to wander the stacks, smitten with words
their magical powers to connect
in spite of time, living and dead
whose wisdom waits here in rows
paper gravestones from which
the departed rise
cheating death as
the child cracks
a spine
reads.
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