You look

And you see

A pleasant home. 

The flowers are bright, 

The bushes are trimmed, 

The shingles are painted,

Two wicker chairs are on the porch.

One white picket fence guards the path. 

 

You enter

And you see 

A worn home. 

The path is uneven, 

The chairs are not cushioned, 

The door squeaks. 

The corners are dusty,

The walls are peeling,

The books are strewn on the floor. 

 

Will you turn on your heels and run?

Will you walk on the books

To get to the couch

Without reading one? 

Will you glance at a title

And try to leave? 

Will you revel in all 

The books you can thieve? 

Or will you pick up a book

With tender hands

And tiptoe to a seat,

And flip through the pages

With fascination

And stay for a while?