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."

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