Ode to a Few Books
There is nothing quite like a book,
hardback, leather or paperbound,
piled high wherever I look,
authors obscure and some, renowned.
Words on fine parchment, glossy, matte,
dog-eared pages to keep my place;
a cup of tea, a purring cat,
a book or two’s, my happy place.
Cases filled to overflowing,
floor to ceiling and wall to wall,
my collection’s ever-growing;
I need more shelves to store them all.
I’ve been told it’s an addiction.
The “h” word, hoarder, has been used.
Tomes of poetry and fiction,
my only vice should be excused.
Every volume is a treasure.
I can’t part with a single one.
Spare me this incessant pressure,
bury them with me when I’m gone!
Day 1 of NaPoWriMo 2018’s Challenge. Prompt: To write a poem that is based on a secret shame or a secret pleasure.