My Human Disguise.
The library is every room in my home.
Books paper the walls; teetering stacks on the floor
Can threaten me if I’m not careful where I walk.
I won’t tell you that I have read every tome.
It’s the yet-to-be-read books a library’s for —
A near-endless resource — reasons why I don’t talk.
Oh, to have them all in one room and organized
By author, genre, or ranked according to size.
The endless hours I've spent looking for one volume
And not finding it — it’s like exploring a tomb.
I know a man with one hall as big as a church
For his collection, bequeathed to him by his Aunt —
Every book by or about Immanuel Kant.
He only uses it for his cockatoo’s perch.
