Book Box

 Patter, Patter, Patter,

Rain slips down the side of it,

The thin glass door,

So, people can see the books.

Perchance one red cover

Or a delicate illustration

Will catch someone’s eye.

 

Tatters, Tatters, Tatters,

They daydream,

that they are on display.

But to the folks passing by

on their way to work

They are only there,

Forever waiting for someone.

 

Click, click, click,

The lock turns, slides, and drops,

The door swings agape.

Hobo books in a row,

Trying to smile up at you.

Someone cared enough to

line them up neatly.

 

Life, life, life,

Giddy hands reach toward the books,

Riffling through,

Perhaps, maybe, possibly,

One of the orphans

would be needed,

would be going home. 

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