“The World Between”

In my father’s study the bookcases are bursting
Neatly of leather-bound marvels:
Encyclopedias from yesteryears outdated
First edition classic canons – perks of his profession
Historical texts on the Western world
My father an intellectual explorer
Only up until a certain point
He liked most to run a hand on time-softened spines
This I know as a little boy spy who
Used to hunt for his father’s attention
Eagerly snatching each stolen detail as
The pit of my stomach deepened while
My eyes drank in his private moments
Unable unwilling to tear away…
An impressive oaken desk lords over the room
Where my father would recline in an equally impressive chair
Feet up on the once impeccable wooden surface
A book in the right hand and the left twirling his glasses
I wondered once as I hid in the spot behind the potted ficus tree
If ever my father compared his son to those intriguing treasures
And found a worthier prize in me