For The Love Of An Old Book Poem by cahen thrips

What does she see in him?
He reminds her of old books; that's what attracted her,
not his looks but
fragrance of his parchment skin,
his foxed and deckled edges,
the way he creases when he grins.

She doesn't worry that his dust jacket
is torn, or simply worn;
well-phrased and not too crazed about grammar,
means what he says and says what he means
so when she reads his subtle deciphered verse
she must put him down for a while
to think about his choice of words.

That when she picks him up again
he falls open at precisely the perfect place
without a frown or recrimination
about his corners being turned down.

In practice, she remembers his every word
because of the way he says them
rather than for what she's heard.

Perhaps most of all, though, she loves him
because when she makes her excuses
and suggests an early night to go to bed -
to read, she muses -
he knows… he respects instead
the essence of a good old book
and what the reader expects.

Funny to think she met him
second-hand, donated by another woman
who didn't want him any longer.

October 2017