no person or animal other than the author was harmed during the production of this poem

my body is unaware
that today is a holiday

it is new year’s eve 2013
therefore
i needn’t report
to the salt mine

but here i am
at 6 am
coffee pot possessed
as good morning gods sit resplendent
upon my altar smiling

the a.m. news programs
hold no special fascination
so i migrate to my office
having decided early reading
whilst the rest of my house sleeps
is my favorite preoccupation

my fingertips
blindly feel the spines
lining the shelves

i won’t look with my eyes
i want to be surprised

ah little thin things with staples
i’m in the chap book section
one two three
pull now…

…oh hell

it’s
his…

his chap book
labeled #13 of 42

well of course it is

now that he’s dead
i suppose i could
go ahead and read it

half way through
a personal message ink scratched
which has waited years to be read
between chapters
delineating
life and death

“For my sweetest of potatos. All my love. -X”

perhaps i should drop to my knees and weep
but instead
i think
he misspelled potatoes, really?

never speak ill of the dead…

…unless they deserve it

always ten degrees off
a fuck up to the end
well, at least the sumbitch
was consistent

i’m reshelving it
my selection finger
moving on to a lesser symbol of sin
to my enduring and beloved
Hester Prynne