The Paperback

The lamplight caught the paperback
Just so,
And lit the matted weave
Of every page.
The unreflective black
Of ink beneath the glow
Made me perceive
The words as ink. Old age
Had bent and cracked
The spine, and as I turned
The yellowed paper, leaves it lacked
Reminded me it would be pulped or burned
Once I was done:
Too many days left in the sun.

How strange, to ruin as I read:
The characters inside,
Their roles each specified
By some creator now long dead,
To act their scenes
One final time. And yet, had I
The means
To save this book, I would,
For preservation, while no good,
Is still
The lie
We tell ourselves,
Imagining the lives upon these shelves
Will somehow last much longer than we will.