Hotel Room Offering

The drawer slid out,

a slow, quiet glide,

and there it sat,

nothing to hide.

A worn-out book,

a thin, pale thing,

what comfort might its pages bring?

The cover bent,

a thumb-print old,

stories inside,

often told.

Not mine, these marks,

these faded lines,

but someone's quest,

or vague designs.

I traced a corner,

rough and slight,

beneath the hotel's

shallow light.

A transient soul,

who paused to read,

planting some unspoken seed.