we buy books

we buy books that perhaps we'd never get to read
they will stand patiently on our shelves
shiny spines competing with one another for attention
like siblings arguing over some silly thing
demanding that the parent decide who's right
a book will sometimes even have to live
with the fact of an unwanted identical twin
bought with a sense of urgency, but by mistake
or with every good intention given as a present
and because as with chocolate or sex
you simply can't resist getting more
they will steadily grow in number (and you will lose count)
until, with a heavy heart, you'd have to put some on the floor
even pile half a dozen on the watertank in the toilet
on the tv and the pc, on things that should be less important
Yet most of them will be ignored
--and you will often say to yourself, only for the time being--
just as the beautiful things of everyday
like the blueness of the sky, the sound of rain,
or the hesitant smile of a perfect stranger
go unnoticed, consigned to the periphery of a life
that has been devoted to men and matters of consequence
or just like friends you left somewhere long ago
present to you now only as warm sentiments
or as blurry faces reminding you of good times, good things
We try our best to get back to them
to those books that surprisingly spoke to us
of some of the thoughts, feelings and longings
we sometimes couldn't really tell apart
or articulate clearly enough or even admit we had
We know we won't stop buying more books
for though we do not always succeed
in getting to make and waste time on them
at least they'd still be definitely around
when the children no longer seek our opinion
when our friends return the favor of forgetting
when men and matters of consequence rule on our insignificance
to ensure a sense of presence other than one's own