The Waiting

They sit on my bedroom table
Upon my bookshelves
In the loft
Boxed in my garage

A few part read
Some cursorily considered
Others not even opened
Quite silent

In supine acquiescence
They wait
For curiosity or chance
To end their slumber

Purchases that once seemed wise
Well intended gifts
Chance acquisitions
Flat in supplication.

Words unspoken, ideas untested
Stories untold, all unaired
Victims of my caprice
Or subsequent indifference

Classics, Biographies
Bog books, pulp fiction
Histories all lie victim to my
Ephemeral whim

And yet sometimes
Isn’t the wait, the expectation
The choice
Quite delicious?

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