The Truth About Tigers

Sometimes, when I want to feel sad,
I go to the used bookstore
and drift to the poetry section,
where once-loved collections
wait for new hands,
marked down, half-price.

Maybe their owners let them go,
deciding they’d gathered enough dust.
Or maybe the owners are gone now
and someone else packed the shelves,
boxed the dog-eared favorites,
and dropped them off
with the dishes and coats.

Either way, it’s enough
to stir a quiet melancholy—
the kind that pairs well
with the gray weight of winter.