Bedside Scripture

The carpet's damp, or feels that way,

even through my socks. Another day

on the road, another numbered room.

Pulled the spread back, shook off the gloom

of patterned fabric, seen a thousand times.

And there, half-hidden, for forgotten crimes

or desperate prayers, a Gideon's word.

Faded blue spine, title barely heard,

gold flake gone. A few pages bent.

Someone hoped, or merely spent

a long night, turning pages, looking for a sign.

I left it there, still wasn't mine.

The cheap nightstand, veneer lifting slow.

Just another place to lay low.