Who will care for my library?
Forty years ok and aging still
Who will dust the jacket covers?
Or brush a hand across the spines?
Who will vow to read Proust again?
Study Crane’s Italian grammar?
Browse Finnegan’s book on sculpture
Or pine again for Lolita?
Who will study all the spaces?
Not keeping count but keeping up
Tattered gems from dollar boxes
And first editions in wrappers
What will happen when I’m buried?
Will someone come and sort through them
And, stopping here and there to think,
Find a foster parent for each?
Or will they be kept together
And carted off and rudely stacked
In some neglected attic space
With other forgotten pleasures?