Bookcase, my bookcase, your shelves are stacked
from floor to ceiling, rammed rack after rack.
There’s King and Tolkien, there’s monsters and myth,
romantic, adventure, lust, lies and lit.
Rowling has racked up incredulous space
where next to Potter is Robert Galbraith.
Horowitz and Herbert, Osman and Joyce
And thanks, Mr Pullman, for your literary voice.
But bookcase, my bookcase, my sweet relief
sometimes you scare me beyond all belief
I’ve chosen a horror, a clown no less
a bestseller, this fella, and yet I confess
there is comfort in knowing that IT ends
on page, Pennywise, six hundred and ten.