Gideon's Gold

The drawer slides out quiet,

not for a pen or paper,

just a nervous habit.

There it is, a small block of weight,

its thin pages pressed tight.

Gold edges, fanned a little, catching

the dim bedside lamp.

A smell of dry glue, or maybe

just the dust of too many hands,

too many lonely nights

in rooms like this.

I run a thumb over the cover,

raised letters, hard and flat.

I don't open it.

Just feel the quiet heft

before pushing it back in.

The dark wood groans once, a sigh.