Inventory

If you could wander
As you imagined
As a teenager,

Stacking walls of books,
Hoping to find doors
Into the unknown—

Pretty funny hope,
Given all you knew
Was unknown to you,

And it was all doors
You were just too weak
To wrestle open—

You’d be out there now,
Proudly wandering
The inventory

Of whatever woods
The world’s minds furnished,
More pleased with being

Coddled in the dark
Than worried the dark
Would find you tempting.

The dark has found you
Tempting anyway,
With your fantasies

Of keeping records
Of what might be real
There, what might be true.