They looked like little pizzas

keeping warm inside

their cardboard boxes. But those were books

in the oven. Books in the pantry

too, pickled and canned, and cold,

frothy ones in the fridge Books three deep

in the shelves, of course. Books before

and after dinner—aperitifs and sweets—

and books a bit drunk on the way out the door.

Emergency books in the trunk of the car.

Dirty ones lying on the backseat floor.

It was hard not to join them.

Tom Jones chased me ’round the dining room table

while Pamela locked herself in the china cabinet.

Sense and Sensibility raised an eyebrow. I had to pee

and there was Moby-Dick in the sink, pursuing the soap.

A drunken anthology of modernists

was smoking in the living room.

Heart of Darkness crouched behind the bookends, waiting.

The Chaucer stayed in its shelf

and laughed and whispered

under its breath. The world, it said.

Sign here.