Saturday 4/22/2006 12:05:00 AM

The cupboard closes softly. With a muted thud. So what of those boxes. All in strains of yellow cardboard. Salt and wheat decaying inside.

I'm not asking to be seen. Or heard. Or even acknowledged. The hour cocks its weapon and my feet move without my permission.

Straining the bindings. Listening for the snap. Parting those pages until everything inside spills out helplessly.

I could've kept reading, but the story was over. And I already knew the girth of the cover's lie.

Could've left that one over. For tomorrow. Or the next night. But I always want to believe such a time will never come.

It's difficult when you open the cupboard and see so many boxes to comprehend that they're all empty.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.