Dog-Eared

The quiet after,

worse than the shout.

I slid from the bed,

feet on cold linoleum,

a familiar route.

Opened the drawer,

not for a pen, but a habit,

and there it sat,

the thin-papered book,

like a small rabbit.

Its spine cracked,

cover worn,

and page eighty-seven

still neatly folded down.

The same crease,

the same passage,

a dull kind of peace,

a silent message.

I didn't read it,

just felt the fold,

the knowledge of its words,

a story already told.

This room, this fight,

this marked-up page,

a worn-out script

on a tired stage.