This
year I made myself a life raft.
I
built it from books:
Added
touches of glamour
and
largesse,
Using,
sparingly, expensive bricks of
fat
new paperbacks,
Still
with the tangible thrill of fresh,
ink
and print.
My
mainstay was the sexy enigmatic chic,
of
bohemian second-handers,
All
bent corners and creased spines
from
a previous, perhaps dubious, life.
Of
course I needed the practical, uniform,
files
of e-books,
Proportioned
as lightly as wardrobes,
with
hidden worlds.
I
took my raft to sea
Or
perhaps it took me.
Through
familiar scenes of:
Tokyo
subways,
And
elegant cups of tea.
To
the foreign vastness of Ivy,
League
intellects,
In
the empty states of the New World.
Allegories
of our souless consumerism,
in
fantasy lands,
Where
war and terror still link hands.
Hot
African countries I've never seen,
Full
of sun and foods and family dreams.
Of
course, as an aside, all the women,
Found
meaning through men.
So
I've travelled through seas no stormier
than
any other.
Learnt
new language, new skills and rediscovered.
Next
year I think I'll make myself a life raft.
I'll
build it from books.
