The Fallacy of Saving

In a lush meadow of greens and browns
of leather double bound and
covers to sink into
you are dull, squat, dour.
Old winters and budgets,
Charles Dickensí cabbage soup.
Owned by a number cruncher, he had no soul.
Time allowed for this book is 14 days
21 days.
Thick regal pages, orange hues - liars these
bookends hiding the flimsy public toilet paper within.
Words will glide and slide if it gets wet,
I may yet discover blank pages.
Did words float in bathtubs? Capital A here
half a sentence
there, caught in bubbles and sloughed off skin.
A semicolon dancing around a plughole.
Will I find a page striped with the blanks from tears?
There are many footnotes.
More footnotes than note-notes which
shout their importance in italics,
in long words beyond my understanding, all bound together
comma-less in sentences which overhang lines paragraphs pages.
You are for bright eyes and bright brains not for
snuggly-duvet heavy-lidded dream-chasing-reading where
you are lifted from my sleeping chest by husbandís gentle touch.
Book, I want to take you out dancing
or at least for a pint and a hug.

Lisette R. Auton

If you have any comments on this poem,  Lisette R. Auton would be pleased to hear from you.