Its toothy paper thirsty for ink,
each book has a spine, a voice.
Someone says yes and someone
cuts paper. Other hands make a cover,
that door with no lock in the rectangle 
where words party, complain,
lie and collude. In any book, friend or foe, 
I scrabble through it in search of
answers, comfort, laughter,
even the heft at turning a page
in search of wisdom or kindness.
The tome whispers, tells me where 
I went wrong and shows me the way home.