Lost in a Good Book

Downstairs, in a corner,
hidden away, it seems,
I lurk in the poetry section
and feel at home
among Bukowski and Keats
next door to the plumbing section
which seems apt
considering my words are shit
and pipe blocked
this metaphor getting away from me
sturgid
flushed with pride,
despite my best efforts
at gravitas
always riddled with corn.

Back upstairs
flicking through Joyce and Beckett
a small girl
(pink puffer jacketed)
takes my hand, mistaking me for da’
turning red as her hair
when she realises
running from my smile.

I can’t help but think
all life is wrapped in words
and probably is
like the newest edition of Shakespeare
old words in new pages
or like the latest bestseller,
leather bound,
vice-versa.

There would be more
and greater realisations
inspired by the classics
words worth their weight in gold,
except at this point
I’m asked to leave
for loudly making puns
in the Chicklit section
and lingering around
life photography.

In a bookstore in Dublin
metaphors abound
and my life is strangely poetic
and poetically strange
and I smile in words
while you read me.