Uncracked Spine

The plastic wrap tears clean, a little rip,

and then it hits, that fresh, sharp hit.

Not flowers, not clean air, but the grip

of new paper, chemical, tightly knit.

A hint of acid, the glue's faint fume,

a factory breath, a silent, knowing hum.

In this waiting room, full of sterile gloom,

it's a small escape, a future yet to come.

It's the promise pressed between the pages,

a silent story, waiting to be unfurled.

A temporary comfort for these anxious stages,

a manufactured moment, in a manufactured world.