As a child, I wanted more
than anything to spend the night within
the walls of an ice cream shop,
with lace covered dainty tables,
one hundred tubs of
luscious, creamy, sweet savoring
goodness . . . and a big spoon.
I’d start wherever I wanted,
choosing the most interesting first
and go on from there,
until fully sated
with a morbidly swollen belly
and a huge smile.
As I grew older, the dream shifted
to that of being locked in at
the Library of Congress overnight.
Dusty books, new ones with shiny
covers and crisp spines. Documents
Histories, Bibles, books covering
every religion and school of philosophy
But I would head to the rare books –
the ones with pages so old they crackle,
don white gloves, and linger . . .
so much ancient wisdom
places and dreams I couldn’t
Ways of writing foreign to me
A world within a world.
It is there I would find succor,
sentient, satisfying completion. . .
until sated and then
entered the next room of desire.