The Day of the Paperback Book
A. D. Sage
Out there in the world, there is a little girl,
with black, curly hair and chocolate brown eyes,
suffocating within the warren of written word,
frozen in the confines of confusing runes,
desperate to leave the overwhelming silence,
bewildered at the waste of space the library is,
hating the bibliophile and its odd fetish,
perplexed at the willingness to stay still for hours,
bibliosmia, a disgusting trait of the weird,
book spines, the width of jail cell bars.
If she is lucky, a teacher
will recommend her a paperback book.
A page as heavy as a wild ocean storm,
becomes light like the bird’s feather,
soaring above landscapes of letters;
in a day, 200 pages turn to a century.
Bricks of meaningless weight,
now tomes of daydreams;
an imprisonment of unrelenting quiet;
now an inviting labyrinth for the adventurous.
If compelled, the little girl may find
the other side of the literary compass.
Train tickets the shape of library cards;
tendency growing to hunt down and hoard
bookmarks and other paper treasures,
adorning her room with towers of novels.
Notebooks homes to possibility,
liquid in pens worth more than gold,
words heavier than the tangible,
stories in doodles, so eager to explore.
The day of the paperback book,
the start of the novelist’s journey.