The Bookcase

Some pains have deep roots.
At first it seems a mere twinge,
then you’re a child,
standing before your father’s closed door,
standing behind mother’s back
as she irons or wrings a rag,
standing apart from the games,
standing before the bookcase,
standing before stories
of a man awakening as an insect,
the reverse of the butterfly;
of an old man and a whale;
of an old man and a losing battle;
of a man in love with his double’s bride;
of a boy and a lovable pirate;
of a cold man with a warm friend;
and each story absorbs some pain.
The boy grows to manhood,
and his stories comfort another boy,
standing before the bookcase.