Books make marvelous bricks
that weigh me down, sink me
to the bottom of today
or build me up like
pyramids in Giza.
They are so much the building blocks
of my character. I come to life
to read, and die when I finish,
except in books
by Billy.
When those poems arrive,
all bound and tethered together,
I pack my bags and go along
for the Sunday drive. He brings me
with him like he promised he would.
I am not aimless in my love,
it belongs to you and just a few,
without whom I would only show
a portion of my tortured soul
only to be whole again.
Word Play 