This day last year, I was having a tough week,
you know those days where your head
is scrambled and you feel like screaming
shouting crying, throwing your hands up
and tapping out?
This day last year was hard, the emotional
equivalent of those athletes who run
seven marathons in a week, except
I was in bare feet and sleep-deprived.
This day last year, I stopped by the book store
on my way home from work,
you can never have too many books,
despite what my wife says.
It’s not a spare room, I say, it’s my library.
This day last year, I wandered up and down
the aisles of the book shop, stopping to read
the back of a few books. Should I try crime?
Fantasy? Thriller? Spy? Self-help?
So many genres to choose from.
This day last year, I was drawn to the narrow shelf
at the back of the book-shop. The shelf was tucked
away as though it stored illicit material.
I reached for a volume, eager to see what this strange
shelf contained. I flicked through a few pages,
turning to make out the words in the faint light-bulb glow.
Was that poetry? Yes, the words were laid out in stanzas
and seemed to be speaking just to me.
This day last year, I tried another page, another poem,
feeling the excitement and adrenaline of a new discovery,
I rushed to the counter and paid for the book
with a crumpled ten pound note,
before heading outside, eager to delve deeper
into this new world.
Standing on the pavement, the rain started to fall,
the name of the book seemed to speak to me too,
Staying Alive.