A bookshelf’s volumes sit entrenched
Between the ridged and rigid maple panels.
Old earthy spines clench and hunch
Like grizzled men in tattered flannel
Who’ve not yet tasted their free lunch.
They, too, wish to smell and breathe the modern air,
To grow and flourish past their storied births.
But perched atop their wooden Alcatraz
They cannot wink and make their storied berths.
If I were Robin Hood, I’d steal them all away
To place them open, naked on the floor.
Their eyes and mine could see the light of day
That their full essence could, above me, soar.
But only I would be to blame
If some sweet noon, where, home you came,
To find them strewn, their prison slain,
Their voice renewed, their open pages lain
To bring us to our knees.