When a Book is Not a Book

Musty light brown brittle paper smell
You know exactly the smell I mean
You smell it in an old used bookseller
In an archive room at city hall
In your grandparents attic
On a hot summer's day
Over near the boxes of books
In the Kellogg's cereal boxes
Safely tucked away

So old and safe
That even bugs and mice leave them alone
No nutritional value left
Too crumbly to shred up into a home

These are books
And I use that term loosely
For what is a book
After all?

It tells a story
It passes on knowledge
It is shared
Most importantly
It is read

These things though
That assume the shape of books
Are really not books any longer
Though there are still words on pages all in lines
They are ghosts residing where books once were
Their titles looking dully out from the spines

Original printings
Second printings
Anthology sets
Representing the best
And sometimes the worst
That an author has to offer

Collected by great grandparents
Sold by traveling salesmen
Who insisted that simply EVERYONE
Had to have this collection of Mark Twain's works
Or James Fenimore Cooper's Leatherstocking tales

Now over one hundred years old
Dried out and forgotten
In attics, basements, and dusty parlors
Their covers not cracked open since they were new
They've given up hope of ever being read
Then along comes the optimistic you

You
Who have heard of so many of these books
Often said to be "must reads" by everyone else
You pick up a likely candidate
And sit down upon the bare floor to read

Opening the cover
You're confronted with the smell
Making you sneeze
But you press on
Finding a loose swatch of wax paper
Covering an engraving
An illustration
Showing an interesting scene from the book

You fall in love
With this bygone depiction
Of this story you've only heard about
You tear into the text with conviction
Turning pages oh so carefully
But not gently enough
As they crack and fall apart
At your soft modern touch

You read through the book all right
Getting the story
Which is just as good as you were told
And when you do reach that last page
Looking up you've read for eighteen hours straight
With a growing pile of paper dust upon your crossed legs

Painfully standing up
Brushing off your legs
The remains of the book all around you
You grab a broom to clean it up

Reflecting upon the other books around you
All with the same ancient library feel
All willing to give their existence to you
For one last read

But it seems these aren't books any longer
Though they do fulfill their job
One last time
Telling their stories to you at last

Crumbling away with their last breath