HAGS

The spine of the book hit the bone of my leg,

a heavy blue brick with no pardon to beg.

I was looking for numbers, a card in the dust,

but I found where the ink had turned into a crust.

"You're okay for a guy who has nothing to say,"

written in black on a long-ago May.

The tape is still sticky where a face used to be,

ripped out like a weed or a bad memory.