Bookcase Poem by S.A. Blair

There are books upon my bookcase
And though most of them are read,
One or two still have their spines
Intact. Not like me.
My binding,
Loose from the get-go,
My contents not foreseen.
Not by me at any rate

This bookcase once felt like a pigeonhole
I struggled to get out.
I made it, though,
Others wouldn't think so
But they’re still dust-bound in the school library.
Although some kids,
Pretending,
Will move them,
From their Dewey abode
The school librarian cannot see them.
Her bosom too big, her glasses thick
With grease.
So they remain.

Now I sit beside others, who are carrying me.
As Chekhov carries Hargreaves.
Singular of course,
To my bookcase.
Am I Mr. Bump?
Maybe,
But in the place of my choosing.