Undiscovered World

The high wooden stool beckons
A hard yet comfortable perch
Shaped perfectly to accomodate
The sitter who perches above
The shorter wooden chair
Filled with heavy, brightly coloured
Winter coats and shoes
And perfectly positioned
To hold the feet of the one
Perched above
Allowing me, the sitter
To lean back on the
Partially open cabinet doors
Hard, pale wood moving slightly
As my back falls against them
Pushing them closed
Allowing me to lean against them
And survey my world
A chaotic world, filled with
Slickly covered stiff new magazines
And their older tattered counterparts
Old ragged books, frayed around the edges
Loose pages protruding from their covers
Dropped randomly into cardboard boxes
Recepticles in various stages of decomposition
Eliciting memories of quiet dusty days
Spent searching through similar boxes
In the dark, cobweb-ridden attic
Looking for books
In similar states
Which, unlike those here,
Have their fate decided already
These books are still waiting
New books, their shiny covers unmarred
By the fingerprints and creases of use
Stacked on shelves and in newer boxes
Their fate has been decided as well
They wait patiently to be shelved
I will not associate with these servants today
A strange sweet chemical odor
Drifts through the air
Coming and going
The indescribable perfume of
Books and magazines
Like that of a bookstore
But mixed with a hint of dust
A relatively pleasant subject in this world
Though inconsistant
The illusion of solitude
Is suddenly shattered
Yet reinforced
By the sounds of people
Quarreling
On the other side of the wall
Not knowing I sit and rule
On the other side
A loud, dark chord signals the starting of a computer
The printers begin to whir and squeak
Clashing with the sudden clicking, tapping rhythm
Of a nearby typewriter
The quarrelers fade away
Leaving me to hear
The others
Unknowing
That they, too, could have what I have found