j o h n . p o p e
First Paragraphs
If Childhood had a scent, one would be of paper
with ink, words, & paragraphs like
Matryoshkan dimensions
materialized as thousands of spines
galactically stacked along
cherry wood shelves, and
blue berry carpeting, and
chairs,
all the same,
with, like, ooh!
cubic cushions, flat legs, for scooting, aah…
Childhood me olympiated aisles.
He glanced upon pictures, or
only First Paragraphs, or
front covers - bore
smuggling Pokémon video games and thieving shelter, eyes wide shut in rough translations,
digital soundscapes,
digital satiation,
digital signs
reading
Borders Out Of Business.
Libraric theft's illegal yet their perfume is for granted.
How could I’ve known? That in a
childhood distraction I'd remain,
glued at 12:00 a.m.,
despite that which would shut my eyes, and
wake me up, is, was, and always will be
Something like the smell of First Paragraphs.