It’s always dangerous to leave me alone in a bookstore,
But my friends could not have known this as they let me wander
Aimlessly down the aisles filling my arms with paper and words.
Too late I noticed my pile had grown too large
For my too little wallet, overly burdened from past excursions.
I told you this was a dangerous game I played.
I argued with the books in my hand about who was the greatest–
Who should follow me home and grace my bookshelves with their stories.
In the end, two poets and a master of myth conquered the teachers of languages.
I left with my prizes in hand and the memory of an odd look from the cashier;
Was that admiration or gentle pity that she gave me with her smile?
Does she understand the spell I am under that causes this love and necessity?
I settled in to read a litany of poems on aimless love and absence
And traded excerpts with a friend for religious philosophy and historical myth.
Then contentedness sprung up like a weed and covered the living room with paper and words.