Black looks for Thomas Browne

I bought books
a headful of books
the wise observations
of ancient philosophers
to stimulate and soothe me
in my coming bitterness of age.

I shelved them on fine timbers
in my velvet-figured study
attending their every need
and for their entertainment
did I provide:
¶ Pendulous parrots in green wicker cages
¶ Venerable brass-bound seven-way mirrors
¶ Etchings of saints in old crystal buckets
¶ Quincuncial lozenges of coolibah wood
¶ And very small fragments of fur.

Yet when I stand in the study's arch
humbly admiring their spines
they glare their gold titles at me
demanding to be unread.
Unturned. To be untouched.
Demanding my permission to plot against me.

They are planning, I suspect, to
all crash down on top of me
(as onto Alkan's father)
in my feebleness of age
when I am weak
and will not long survive
being crushed to pulp
by hundreds of hate-ridden books.

They will inherit the study
(they think)
and gloat forever
in cool, airy comfort
unsullied by human eyes.

Why aren't they content
after all I've done for them?
What more could I do for them now?

I'm overwhelmed.
I hate them all.
I will them to the rubbish dump
to rot in gruesome ground
overcome by sticky slime and mould.

And sold into slavery,
pawed over every day.
Held by their covers and shaken
by muck-handed, page-sucking schoolboys,
That'll teach them to oppress me.
Ha!

And then shall I purge
all the parrots, the mirrors,
quincuncial lozenges,
etchings of saints,
and exceeding small fragments of fur.

In serenest old age
uncumbered by vicious possessions
I'll dwell in the arch of my study
rubbing my head with contentment
on the sheen of those velvet-soft walls.

Dennis List