Parquet floors creak with age,
like an old man’s knees.
Tattered paper bindings worn with time
stretch up from floor to ceiling;
In the center, a long table
and a Chinese lamp beside a high-backed chair.
Quiet; a scent of dust and paper;
a place to read or think, a private refuge.
This room of mismatched books contains
my life of sixty-something years;
the hurts embraced and joys endured;
images grim, humorous, trite and tragic.
The wins and losses, high goals and low gods
that fed and drove me down the years
all here in these books; yet now,
they seem unreal; someone else’s story.
As for the details, all these books will tell;
just spend the time to take them down
and read. But no, I’ve got a better thought:
Let’s just sit here on the couch and talk.