Papal Pulp, a Sonnet by Amanda Witt

 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.