Books will outlive me.
Not just any books,
but these…
the ones on my shelves.

Even the cheap paperbacks—
those whose pages are yellowing,
but at a much slower rate
than my kidneys.

And the tomes printed on fine paper
could well outlive the forests
that birthed them.

A hundred years from now,
when I’m a footnote to a footnote,
someone may be leafing through
my treasured coffee-table book
of paintings from the Louvre.
Or the volume on old cowboy movies,
or Dickens’ collected works.

Maybe a descendant,
maybe a stranger
who picks it up
in a secondhand store
or a library.
Maybe a mouse
who comes across it
in an attic.

My wife calls me a hoarder.
I say I’m a collector.
But, when it comes to people,
life is neither.

About the Author

John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident who was recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Red Coyote.