My Life is an Open Book

I sit on the shelf, waiting,
and my pages quiver with excitement
each time a child rushes by with a pop-up book,
or a handsome man with square-framed lenses
pauses to examine my cover,
or a pretty woman with a finger twirling in her brown locks
passes me by without a glance.
Dust gathers through the day,
but they clean me off when I need it.
Scent of coffee fills the air,
rising from the little shop in the corner.

Take me off the shelf.
Pick me up and open me.
I'm not just this cover,
I'm more than a surface that draws you in.
Turn these pages, read me through,
open me up, and learn what I am!

I love the store, really,
and I'm happy here, mostly.
It's just sometimes I worry I'll never leave,
that I'll sit and age on this shelf
till all my pages turn dry and yellow,
my spine comes unglued and separates,
and my ink fades from my pages.
I worry that someday they'll pull me off the shelf
and leave me in a garbage dump,
or else recycle me
to print the last newspaper in America.

Take me off the shelf.
Pick me up and open me.
I'm not just this cover,
I'm more than a surface that draws you in.
Turn these pages, read me through,
open me up, and learn what I am!

(Photo credit: "Bookstore" from plofiz on Flickr)

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