The Used Book

"Look," my wife said, handing me the volume
She'd been reading.  "This book is so old
That someone had to cut its pages apart."

I examined the faded orange binding
That read "Lincoln's Sons" by Ruth Randall.

"I find it comforting," Nancy continued,
To know that someone's read this before me.
It's as if they've cleared a path for me."

I imagined the book's first owner
Painstakingly using a penknife
Or perhaps a silver letter opener
Shaped like a sword to cut through the pages.
His blade scattering the screeching "J's"
As he swats away "B's," ignoring their sting.
Holding at bay with that thin blade of steel
The sneaky "R's" with their legs out to trip one,
And "S's, hissing, rearing, getting ready to SSStrike.
There's "K's" with their lances held at the ready,
The jagged menace of the slashing "Z's,"
And coiled "G's," gnashing their terrible jaws,
Waiting to gobble up the unwary.
There's "T's," their arms reaching out to grab you
And hurl you into the gaping maw of an "O."
It's a conquered empire of evil letters,
Cowed into submission by the Balboa
With the machete that cut through each page,
Blazing a trail for future readers.

The subdued alphabet surrenders to grammar,
Submitting to being ordered into

Words..... Sentences.....Paragraphs

Subject thoughts now, except for the unruly few
That sullenly muster to mutter resistance,
Giving voice to their anger and frustration
With words like 'war,'  ' assassin' and 'bullet.'