They fill my every shelf and every basket.
My sock drawer holds more of them than socks.
My closet overflows with them – I cannot open the door
Without getting a toe or two smashed by their fall.
They stack against the wall and in the corners,
Spreading like a plague beneath the bed.
They function as side-tables and doorstops,
And sometimes stray even into the hall.
I cannot keep them under control at all,
And just when it seems they are finally in hand
A few more wander through the door,
And beg with silent eyes for a place to say
What can I say? They are so lovely
And they smell so very nice – I must concede.
Though my mind chides me, knowing I shall never read
All these strays I’ve adopted – all these books.