A Life Raft of Books

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.