Books, all row after row, standing at attention
Tall, short, alphabetized by author
Some have gotten tired and take on a lean
While the rest whisper warnings to the others
Not to do likewise or it will go bad for them.
Colors of every kind smatter the wall inside each case
Six shelves high, with only the topmost books gathering dust
From a distance each row looks like a jagged-toothed smile
And all we can say about them is that they’re books,
Rather than cookbooks or etiquette, philosophy or medicine.
But they make fine wallpaper by which to stimulate
The minds and imaginations of those who sit and watch
Wondering what reader might notice which book
And what it would take to take it home.
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