With interesting books I find
In OXFAM and the like.
So many, you’d need several shelves
To cram their contents in your mind.
And who will want them when I die?
No one I know I would entrust
With all those volumes gathering dust.
Why do I buy them then, yes, why?
It’s not as though I’m out to vie
With libraries where folk may browse.
Nor would it please me to arouse
The envy of a bibliophile.
Such folly wouldn’t be worthwhile.
Nor is there anyone they might impress.
In fact, the more the space, the less
Would visitors ask why
There are so many of them here.
I don’t know why myself, that’s clear—
Unless, surrounded by the things,
I hope that they might make me clever.
But could that happen? No, not ever.