POETRY

Why This Book

I’m not a poet

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My father once told me,

he’s never read a real book

in his life,

only plumbing, carpentry, and electrician books,

but never a real one.

So if I bought him a new book,

and explained what a treasure it is

to have an inspirational need

that gets lusted after like an oversexed animal,

as imagination falls prey to the seduction,

He might forget about those blue,

water-stained books,

with their sawdust speckled spines

and rigid, dog-eared pages

so seldom void of mechanical drawings

and diagrams —

and embrace a most favorite food

of the imagination — a book (a novel or otherwise) —

Then he can avoid accidentally starving himself

For only a real book is what he needs.