Poetry and dystopian novels make up nearly all of my library now
Not so much a library
As a solitary shelf
Where once my collected volumes filled an entire wall
Of a small flat
Now my medium-sized house fairly rattles
With the absence of voices
The ranks of my old friends have been whittled away
Only Orwell now and Huxley
And one solitary Waugh to rest beside Williams, Whitman, and Frost
I wonder how all those lost now fare?
Whose fingers flick through their well-worn pages?
Or do they lie beneath time’s film untouched and unloved in mildewed boxes?
I try not to think of all those years we spent in each other’s company
They travelled often with me from home to home
But could not make my greatest odyssey
An issue of weight
Today I bought a copy of Ulysses by Joyce
Soon, I’ll need a second shelf.
Words and image are my own.