Poetry by Francis Conlon

Sometimes the jacket stands alone,
A book cover with title embossed,
The text itself seems a weighty tome,
Whose message long ago was tossed.

Yet, I love a place with books,
Of course, there’s a fine library,
With small study spots in the nooks,
And, study of old thoughts contrary.

Is there a place—a writer’s cemetery?
Old thoughts and books gather about,
Ideas antiquated little scary,
In grumbling whispers but no shout?

So dusty is the old collection,
Stacks with volumes musty,
Nothing overdue in this section,
Just old spirits and grammar fusty.

Francis Conlon is a retired teacher living in Salt Lake City, Utah.