The Man Who Ate
Dictionaries
Once started, he couldn't stop.
There were many more words that he'd ever thought possible,
and many more dictionaries.
Their paper varied from chewy
to ink-flavoured to newspaper-thin
but it was the words that really mattered,
apricity being the warmth of
winter sunlight.
Natiform he hoped his skull
was not.
He was not a know-all, an insufferable philodox
but a connoisseur, a gourmet.
He tasted words,
he feasted on words,
each word tasting better than swordfish
or loganberries, an exquisite, short-lived,
rare satisfaction.
Sheila Hamilton
If you have any comments on this poem, Sheila Hamilton would
be pleased to
hear them.
