My mind wanders as I read a novel. Its ideas,
spread wide, ignite fireworks I chase–
sparks as abundant as icing on a cake.

My eyes plow through words in neatly stacked lines.
I build a mental puzzle of a world
inhabited by characters on the move,

where what happens next matters desperately.
Chasing the storyline is like racing
up seven steep flights of stairs,

never pausing to catch my breath.
Although eager to arrive at the ending,
I resent the rush. I set the book aside, take a bath,

close my eyes, searching for quietude.
Details of the story slip away,
like rubber ducks engulfed in steam.

Conflicting needs arise: not wanting a prolonged break,
not wishing to start again, yet tempted
to pick another book, hopefully begin a wild new ride.

It is like speeding along a German highway,
and afterwards, I am happy to leave the car behind.