They fill my every shelf and every basket.
My sock drawer holds more of them than socks.
My closet overflows with them – I cannot open the door
Without getting a toe or two smashed by their fall.
They stack against the wall and in the corners,
Spreading like a plague beneath the bed.
They function as side-tables and doorstops,
And sometimes stray even into the hall.
I cannot keep them under control at all,
And just when it seems they are finally in hand
A few more wander through the door,
And beg with silent eyes for a place to say
What can I say? They are so lovely
And they smell so very nice – I must concede.
Though my mind chides me, knowing I shall never read
All these strays I’ve adopted – all these books.
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Comments about this poem (Adopted Strays by Sophia White )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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