The story of time

A chain
that links a life to another
an idea to another
a thought to another
the old woman living down the street
wrote a book long ago
that was bought my by uncle
who did not know how to read,
yet loved to pretend he did
overflowing bookshelf
with the likes of Keats,
Yeats,
Shakespeare
not opened,
not ever
for he lived alone,
never married
nor had children
one day he took his last breath
closed his eyes
and fell into eternal sleep
and all the books upon the shelf
were sad and lonely
until the masses rolled in
and scavenged his belongings,
the leather recliner,
the plasma television
his favourite black vinyls,
but no one touched the books,
and so I packed each one
lovingly brought them home.
Splayed them out,
upon my floor
and that's when I noticed
the old woman's name
and so I carried the book to her home
and gave it to her
and she remembered having written it,
along with many others
I asked would she take the time
and read to me,
of course, she said
the story of the old woman
and at the end,
I thanked her,
kissed her wrinkled cheek
walked with my book held under my arm
and never saw the old woman again.