Books.

The spine is cracked and the pages torn,
Everything about this book is worn.
The print is faded to a grey,
Though the words, with me, they stay.
I turn a page then several more,
I read until my eyes are sore.
And when I finish, I smile and sigh,
Without a book, I want to cry.
And so, I walk on down a street,
Straight to a friend I long to meet.
I open the door and hear a "DING!"
I see full shelves, I want to sing.
Row upon rows of unread books,
Here, I get no weird looks.
I trace my finger along each spine,
"One day, you books, you will be mine."
I find a title, a blurb, a cover,
A whole new world that I'll discover.
I pick a few, a sturdy pile,
And to the counter I walk and smile.
I buy my books, a reasonable fare,
I breathe in the papery air.
And then, I leave back up the street,
The plastic bag has friends to meet.
In this outside world, I get strange looks,
No matter, for I have my books.