Notes on Reading Addressed to a Stranger

You stare me down.
Glance at the title in my hand.
Something sad,
Perhaps,
Or something true
Or both.

You say you do not understand
Why would I choose to read?
When you dislike it so.

Let me ask you
How would I answer?
There’s nothing to say.
No possible way
That I could convince
you—

To dance—
To dream—
To fall
Into pages cream
To come through darkness
Into light
To let go of the breath you’ve been holding,
To be lost,
To be found
(If it’s not a cliche.)

I do not understand.
I do not condone.
This lonely sort of life
You must lead,
To be only one person
Alone—
In an indifferent universe.

A book is a friend
to the end of the line—
With you all the way.
That’s the idea of it all.
(And that’s all I have
To say.)