A book appeared in my favourite shop,
fifty fat dollars’ worth.
I had to ease it out
and stroke the satiny skin
of the cover image,
a profile in black and white
of a man with a felt-tip pen.
I speed-read page after page
(they did ask to be read)
but was put off
by the fifty bucks.
Back to the shelves it went
between its brother books
and sadly I walked away.
The thought of the book
tracked me like a stalker,
hissing, stubborn and sly:
you deserve this book,
see it as a reward,
a trophy you’ve earned.
But the cost.
One ambiguous day
steamy with sunlight and rain,
not planning to give in,
I found myself in the shop
and snatched what I’d disguised
among the military texts,
so no one could find it.
Before any thrift could intervene
I ran to the counter and paid,
left with the book in my arms.
I have read it all year; letter
by lucid letter, slowly.
When the end comes I may begin again,
I shall refuse, ever, to lend it.