In the hour before training at the union hall begins,
I wander into Borders and slather over books.
My psychologist had told me to curb my appetite
lest I ruin my mind, but the desire is still there.
I take books one by one from the shelves,
clean and crisp as a woman's perfumed hair,
run my fingers over the words like the skin
of a paramour, trace the spine of each novel,
with tongues search out the sounds of poems.
Pent up emotions can find no release.
There is no time, no money in my pocket,
and no room in my house for more jealous lovers.