The basement compound is full of stacks.
Six thousand plus books in alpha order.
Welcome, bibliophiles and novice poets.
The lighting is courtesy of a three-bulb tree.
A balanced diet of tomes, sonnets &
Limericks, prose poems in tongues.
A cheval glass mirror sees Wendell Berry.
The room under the stairs has anthologies.
Each volume is part of a collective whole.
Vendler on Dickinson & New York Haiku.
This one-time coal-bin has a dehumidifier
To keep it alive & free of mold.
The poets are unaware of the visits of
A baby raccoon who almost ate Auden.
They are sleeping soundly, immune to
Dog-eared magazines in the reject corner.
Lorca himself rests just above the sump
Pump & Yeats across from the water heater.
The furnace keeps Frost warm in winter
& The Lady of the Lake dry.
Come & check out the underground home
Of Thomas’ and Plath’s villanelles.
No photo ID card needed here, just a
Healthy, insatiable appetite for metaphor.
There is one requirement: patrons must
Leave cell phones at the top of the stairs.
& they must have a love-affair with the real
Thing, a desire to touch a book.
Yes, all six thousand plus volumes are, or
Were, in print – made of paper and glue.
© Lewis Bosworth, 4-2017