They look at me with hard accusing eyes:
the unread books, the old ones leaning on each other’s covers,
Stendhal’s Le Rouge et Le Noir, Simone de Beauvoir, and even Nabokov
are silent witnesses of my guilty laziness, my idleness
( and how they stare at me!)
Procrastinating I have built a wall of words
that never saw the light of day,
they are the fortress from within
I think I know enough. I know so little, though.
I only know De Beauvoir and Sartre once were lovers,
but on two different shelves, they can not even touch.
They look at me, and sometimes I just turn them face to wall,
as I can’t bear the look of so much right when I am wrong.
One day I’ll make it up to Proust, to Marx, to Lewis Carroll even.
How can they know I have a life somewhere.
Anyway: they shouldn’t stare, it’s rude!