I am publishing this poem several days early, just to mess with my brother’s head. He can’t stand it when a poem appears on a day other than Friday. This one was prompted by a documentary on book collectors. I was struck by the statement on one collector who mentioned that one set of books hadn’t been off of his shelf in 15 years. Another said the purpose of collecting rare books was to deprive others of the pleasure of their possession. It occurred to me that there is a place for keeping books safe for the future; but, they are called libraries, and are open to the public.
Book Fair.
The men and women walked the aisles
of the book fair.
Their gaze fell upon
ornate leather bindings
and they moved into the booths
like panthers on the prowl,
seeing through narrow eyes
squinting as in a bright sun.
Their fingers lovingly moved
over the books
with a reverence
reserved for their god.
They opened the books,
looking for marks of the first born,
judging their condition
like beauty pageant contestants.
Money was no object,
and rarity was a good thing.
In this contest,
antiquity was the winner,
and the collectors
cared more about depriving others
of a find,
and keeping the books safe
from the destroyers of knowledge.
After their purchases,
they went home to their other books,
put the new ones
in the bookcase,
and never touched them again.