Near Noon

I’m reading a poem about books Books I‘ve read, shared, kept, adored, analyzed, disliked And always wondered what compelled these people to keep writing

30 degrees in the shade and we’re moving My longing to hold a book and stop sorting, placing, separating, choosing, letting go is constant

Closing date looms large this home will change like so many books the design of which will twist and turn As a motive in a sonata re-invents itself as its intervals invert, change rhythm, harmony and mood

This poem about books blows my cover Unforgettable are the many times my mother and I read classics together in late evenings The only chance she had to read The only time she let go Allowed herself some space A place for her motives to twist and turn in my room where I could hear echoes of her Montreal childhood below Dorchester on Overdale Street where everyone had a novel without words only covers

Almost one o’clock The humidex climbs even higher I selfishly store an original Greyfriar’s Bobby deep into a reused carton not only because it was a first edition but because the real plot still develops