Slowly, without damaging any of the books, his prized possessions, I slip the books aside, speak to him, “Making progress, Poe. I’ll have you out of here in a minute or two. Not to worry,” and expose his left leg and part of his left arm.
The Stand. For Whom the Bells Toll. Charlotte’s Web. Son of Solomon. The Satanic Verses. The Girl on the Train. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Wanderlust. The Hate You Give. The Canterbury Tales. The Complete Works of Ibsen. Valley of the Dolls. Catch-22. Odd Thomas. On the Beach. Flowers in the Attic. Love Story. I remove all these titles from Poe’s frame and eventually expose his head and…
For just a few seconds I stop unearthing him from his tomb of books and have the upsetting flashback of walking into his row house in early spring, checking u
