My best friend, Lois
lives next door, at the bend of the cul de sac.
On sunny days, we greet over our mutual fence.
Her blue eyes smile at my brown eyes
and we talk about a spear of summer grass.

Then, "what are you reading?" she asks inquisitively
as we comment events, stories, movies,
and insanely, we dismember plots.

She has books of poetry, prose, travel, art,
in bountiful boxes bursting with clippings;
memorable memorabilia that shaped our past.

She is a seasoned collector, you bet.

Contented I sit on her multi-cushioned couch
encircled by a probing mass of boxes,
and I always discover a star.

One day, in a pristine pale rose square box
I found an ashen and disjoined poetry book
dated 1933.
At my touch, the timeworn corner crumbled!

Oh my! My hands bonded with the dust of the past.

What a unique delight she is,
Lois, my best friend.

* * * = * * * *