Books

I like to study rows of
other people's books.
Head tilted toward curiosity.

Boston morning rented.
New for me. Used for her.
An arist's place.
She offered reminders by her purchase
titles and names, what I do not know.

Socrates, he knew nothing.
Hey his words not mine.
All I know is that I know nothing.

So when I fancy to ride high on pride
I'll have to ask myself if
I'm really leaving a bearded philosopher behind
to bite my dust.
Not even he challenged authority,

His that convicts
not shame but love.

His that beckons
humility not pride.

He who commands:
Recite one book there
one or a thousand or
one hundred thousand.
Then profess to Me
not what you know
but what you do not know.