Books I have not read
sit on my shelf and taunt me.
"Open me and read," they whine.
"You know, you know, you want me."
I cannot get to them all
carefully arranged against the wall.
I wait till the earth shakes, then one will fall.
That’s the end of the stall.
In the meantime I caress them with my gaze,
Occassionally rearrange them
push them around a little bit
reshelf and derange them.
Still, they know I’ll keep them;
never let them wander off a mile,
set pathetic, on my desk
in my "Prophetic Pile."