Here’s the wonky signature with my
middle name; oh Christ; how old
was I again?
I never thought I’d part with this one.
And I didn’t. For 40 years or so.
What’s the criteria for permanent omission?
I will never read you again,
or, I never read you anyway?
And time is flying like eyes across the
printed page.
My life is hurtling by
and I won’t last
as long
as some of
these books.
And I’m not lying
when I say that
in all my years
I’ve only had
a few big purges.
Moving interstate,
moving back.
And now, quitting work
for reading, and writing
for the remainder
of my time
on earth.
These deletions make spaces
on my shelves.
My mind is focused,
keen.
I won’t miss what’s now unseen.
Will I?
See also by Shelley O’Reilly: The Shack
