When I visit someone’s home
pleasantries done
I escape to the books on their shelves,
perusing the colonnade
of titles and authors’ names,
my back to the room
(a socially acceptable way of avoiding conversation).
Paperbacks, some worn and faded
some with resistant spines when opened.
Hardbacks, some with dust jackets, others without.
Regal books in fine bindings,
the great works we are all supposed to have read.
Books, as a collection,
reveal their owner’s soul,
especially when you find one
with passages underlined.
Perhaps I’ll ask to borrow one
but, then again, perhaps not
because that would obligate me
to another visit and more conversation.
Granolativity 