I am obsessed with the feel of the new book
Opened in my hands, fingers running down
The center binding; lifting it to my nostrils,
Taking in the musky smell of new ink on page,
Before allowing myself the distinct privilege
Of reading the opening lines, then plunging
Headlong into the author's creative imagination.
I caress it between my hands, rubbing them
Across the front, the back, down the binding
Once, twice, again; I claim this book as my own;
I envision it resting on my bedside table, then
In my reading room next to other coveted works
I have collected and treasured since boyhood.
I hold it to my breast as I approach the cashier--
Not really wanting to hand it over to her to price.
Soon, it will be entirely mine! I am in love again.
The affair grows until the final page is turned,
Until I have laid it down and begun to think about
My new lover in the little bookshop on Oak at Vine.
Wednesday, March 17, 2021