new books arrived in the laundry room
(I do laundry more often since I retired):
German novels, African American history,
Native American languages, British plays.
I thumb through all the new additions,
while the whites wash and the colors dry.
An eclectic collection, well kept (I can tell) and
carefully perused by a conscientious reader,
perhaps a former tenant, now departed, her books
abandoned, left behind to testify
on her (or his) behalf. And launderers
like me now benefit from such largesse.
I thumb through them all,
and wonder will my volumes end up here.