The fight it wound down

The fight, it wound down.

Same slow hiss,

flat tire sound.

I sat on the bed.

Synthetic spread, thin.

The yellow lamp.

Smell of old smoke,

too much cleaner, a common odor.

Pulled the drawer,

already knowing

what my fingers would find.

The Bible, worn,

Gideon's pledge.

Open, of course, to 23.

Psalm 23.

Same dog-eared page,

the crease, a small scar.

Yellowed paper,

the ink blurred.

"Thy rod and thy staff." I recall

reading it last time. And the time before.

I don't remember

comfort, just the sprawl

of the same words.

Again.