Thumbprint

The spine of the book finally gave up,

cracking at page four-twelve.

I’ve spent three nights in this chair

with nowhere else to delve.

The ink just stops in the middle

of a white and empty space.

I left a thumbprint in the margin,

a smudge of grease and oil and trace.

The room is too quiet for sleeping now.

The radiator clicks in the hall.

The story is done and I’m still here

staring at the shadow on the wall.