I lent a book out a couple years back
and took the dust cover off before
handing it over. The empty dust cover still sits
on my shelf, drooping from its emptiness
and yearning for its bones.
I imagine the book in my friend's house,
reclining in its nakedness and waiting to be read.
I wonder if it gets cold or if it's embarrassed
with no clothes. I wonder if it misses home.
My friend swears he returned it,
remembers it clearly, does not know
where the book would be if not with me
in its sleeve, placed back on the shelf
where it belongs. I imagine the book in his house,
cramped beneath a pile of papers
or dropped on its side below a bed.
I wonder if my book will ever see me
or be read by me again,
yet I forgive my friend
for all the trouble.
YOU ARE READING
These People and I
PoetryThis year for National Poetry Writing Month, I want to challenge myself by mostly writing about people I wouldn't normally write about. This could include people from my past, present, or even future. I'll be adding a new poem by midnight each day i...
