Basement Books.

The mind tends to wander at work, especially with the silent encouragement of books surrounding me.

Basement Books

The basement books can wait a while
Their jackets’ dust cannot defile
What lies within, belabored words
Of spirits hoping to be heard.

For I am writing my own mind.
It found me, I sought not to find.
And locked in rhythmic lengths I stride
To sew some seams I cannot hide.

Or maybe something darker lurks
Within the mildewed cellar works.
That keeps me cuddled to the sun.
Down there I’d be the only one.

It would be nice to have a friend.
To face the call of lonely men.
‘We’re not them!’ I’d say to him.
‘Our futures, they are not so dim.’

But where am I? Now the sun is slight.
Am I so different in the light?
Up here or there, I’m still alone.
And through my dust, we’ll all be one.

Written at the New York Public Library