As a guest,
if I enter a house
and cannot find
its bookshelf,
I’ll sit stiff,
making small talk with
mere acquaintances.
But if I enter a home
and find a line of
time-worn,
titled spines,
there is a real chance
for friendship.
Through that shelf,
I can read
my host’s
displayed mind,
which is precisely why
I’ve hidden my
bookcase away.
Sure,
I’ll lend whatever titles
might impress
and not dismay—
no need to showcase
my uncouth love for
World War Two history,
fraught politics,
dread poetry.
Instead, i’ll selectively
offer cookbooks,
light fantasy,
and the classic novels we
were all once
assigned to read.
See, most people prefer
coherent collections,
consistent perceptions,
even if it means
sitting stiff and
chatting with
lifelong
acquaintances.
pm poetry 