Written for my dear friend, Jim. For 25 years we walked our neighborhood at 6 a.m. and talked about many things important and trivial. He told me about the things he loved and those that angered him. Twenty-five years of talks is a long time. I have moved away and I miss those walks.
I am Volume G of Britannica
In a carton on the floor,
Storage closet 83,
By the internet,
But I remember sunlight
While on a shelf, my friend Jim
Picking me up, always
Thumbing through my pages
With tender, inquisitive fingers.
Our first time,
He looked up gooseberries
For a lady wearing a flowered hat.
His loving, but nervous touch
Betrayed his anxiousness to find
The answer to her inquiry.
One night he was alone
As he opened me and searched
For Gettysburg. He spent
So much time with me;
I could tell he loved
Reading about the Civil War.
Then, there was the afternoon
He became angry with a librarian
Who stayed behind the desk and sent
A student alone in my direction.
He lectured her: take the patron
To the section, select the correct volume
And show them the page.
I felt goose bumps.
He would have stayed into old age,
Had he not also been caught in a techno-web.
He retired before his touch was cold.
Me, I am heading for a funeral pyre,
But I know Jim loved me
And I adored him
And his insatiable search