She slid into the book as if it were
a steaming whirlpool on a chilly day
or a cool pond on a very hot day
(She must revise as she is carried on).
kept her turning the pages and her head
kept time: slight left, slight right, then lift and turn.
fantastic—either would do, as long as
it wasn’t here and now—it wasn’t her life
No, she liked travelling the only way
she could, page after page, day after day—
library just ten blocks away. She used
her battered red wagon to carry her
and back every Tuesday for fifty years
(or so), Tuesday the day it never closed
this turn-around day, she reflected
and with a smile and sigh, she submerged.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
© 2018 Susan L. Chast