Boxes unpacked, three a week
Some books are set aside,
We are on a wild ride
And cannot be meek.
Some books the library already holds,
It is checked all the same,
By the title, author name
For others I hear “It’s gold!”
Then the books that make us gulp –
Numerous copies, all the same
These become the Papal Pulp,
In the Disposal Game.
Out the door they go, and in the bin
Though it feels like a Cardinal sin.
See also Philip Harvey’s response to this sonnet at Reverie 39.