We have run out of bookshelves.
Books pile at the end
of our bed and in your dresser drawer.
The dinner table belongs to
Hemingway; we eat on the floor,
our books held open
by the rims of our plates.
Yesterday, I realized
that if we washed our plates by hand
we might even use the dishwasher
to store Thoreau and Twain.
And so we wash up side by side,
staring out the kitchen window,
dreaming about all the books
that we will buy tomorrow.