The Bracing

I’m stacking the weight of the years in a row,

the heavy-bound books that I didn't let go.

The pine is still steady, the brackets are tight,

holding the ghosts of the pages tonight.

The screw head is flush where I drove it in deep,

keeping the secrets that wood likes to keep.

It doesn't complain and it doesn't give way,

carrying more than I thought it could weigh.

The wall is a little bit crooked and lean,

but the shelf is the strongest thing I’ve ever seen.

It stays in its place like a promise I kept,

stronger than any of those where I slept.