Mr Mommed

Mr Mommed did not quite live alone.
 
Although he had no wife or lover  
Or ever once looked at men that way as his father had.
He had his books, he loved his books and they loved him.
So Mr Mommed would leave his house everday
Lock the door and leave the red brick mountain behind
And go somewhere and buy a book
With the money his soulless years  
Of painting and other fine art had brought him.
 
He could be a virtuous knight on a quest
Or an eccentric detective trying to find the last clue
Or a bored husband who finds that special something
Or a child genius trying to feed his intellectual
appetite with only pennies to spend
Or anything he wanted
But always to buy a book a day.
 
And Mr Mommed would keep all these books
He never would borrow, beg or steal
But always keep his books
In his house squeezed between sky high apartments.
His very own tower and keep
And keep them all in his wardrobe next to his bed
Their words living rent free in his heart and head.
 
All in a bookcase that dominated the room
An imperial tyrant larger than life
Its shadow looming over the common household items below
Stern faced and humourless  
in its mass produced pannelling
Hiding the dangerous ideology within
Swelling with pride and the power of words.
 
Until one day the wardrobe could swell no more
Years of being packed with books and tomes
Had made the wardrobe split and groan and moan
And now came the fall after the pride
Great gaps appeared in its side
And the heap of books avalanched forwards
Enveloping Mr Mommed in a crushing lover's embrace
As he sat hunched unaware at his desk and died.