Outstanding Debt

The spine I cracked in ninety-four

is sitting on some other floor.

I saw its twin in a plastic bin,

the paper bright, the story thin.

A dollar price for something nice,

without the stains of my old vice.

Back home, the shelf is light and bare.

A ghost of ink is resting there.

A rectangle of settled grit

where your name used to sit.

I found a flower, dry and brown,

tucked where the plot went upside down.