Books embrace me on all sides.
Large print, teens, newly issued.

It is quiet, yet the conversations between
the covers speak with bold enthusiasm.

Humor and drama unfold together
like mating butterflies...

I know not where one ends
and the other begins. Rows and rows

of poetry, science fiction. And, oh,
romance stories whispering just

beneath their paperbacks, dripping in
lingering kisses, with graceful necks sweeping

down to full breasts and feverish, alluring gazes.
There are newspapers, those antiquated pages

of yesteryear, aligned in an orderly fashion in the back
of the room, somewhat solitary and longing to be held,

studied, and remembered for the knowledge
they once-upon-a-time extended and encouraged.

I am here in another world. As if I've stepped into
the rabbit hole, the endless tunnel of words

and more words. I believe if I had to read aloud
each book, all these ideas, I'd start with the letter "A"

forgetting the day and hour, my height, my size,
even my name, content to tumble happily

into the magic of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.