Bequeathment
I pulled the trigger, filed the proper forms,
let it be known that I would be retiring,
and gave some thought to finding loving homes
for forty years of books I’d been acquiring.
I tried to make each gift a presentation.
On each flyleaf a thoughtful note was written.
Most recipients feigned appreciation;
some looked as though I’d handed them a kitten.
My college Shakespeare, filled with marginalia,
went to a friend, the new department chair.
She felt compelled to give me an azalea,
and where the plant had been, my book went there.
The last few weeks I put them on display
and welcomed all to come and help themselves.
Like hopeful orphans on adoption day,
my books posed on my desk and filled my shelves.
Our school librarian sensed my apprehension
and claimed she didn’t know which she’d prefer.
She sent a student, serving a detention,
to bring all the remaining books to her.
It was a kind, compassionate act. God bless her!
She let me think my scholarly legacy
would last—and all could see that some professor
had once inscribed a book bequeathed to me.
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Edits:
S4L2: and told the school to come and help themselves. > and welcomed all to come and help themselves.
S5L1: Our librarian, sensing my apprehension, > Our school librarian sensed my apprehension
S5L2: claimed not to know which volumes she’d prefer. > and claimed she didn’t know which she’d prefer.
S6L4: inscribed a book that he bequeathed to me. > had once inscribed a book bequeathed to me.